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IMASE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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2.0 


11.25  I 


1.4 


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Fhotographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WIST  MAIN  SVRIIT 

WIBSTIR,N.Y.  14SS0 

(716)  t72-4S03 


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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHIVI/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  lns\ivute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notas/Notoa  techniques  at  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographicaily  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


□    Coloured  covers/ 
Couveriure  de  couleur 

□    Covers  damaged/ 
Couverture  endommag^e 

□    Covers  restoied  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaur6e  et/ou  pelliculie 


n 


Cover  title  missing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


I      I    Coloured  maps/ 


Cartes  giographiques  en  couleur 


□    Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

I — I    Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 


a- 


D 


D 


Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli6  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  reliure  serr^e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  intirieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajoutAes 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  Atait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  M  filmtes. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppl^mentaires: 


L'institut  a  microfilmA  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  4tt  possibkii  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-Atre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique.  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  m^thode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiquAs  ci-dessous. 


□   Coloured  pages/ 
Pages  de  couleur 

□    Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommag^es 

I — I    Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 


D 


Pages  re-stauries  et/ou  peiliculies 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  ddcolories,  tachet6e.i  ou  piqu^es 

Pages  detached/ 
Pages  ddtachdes 


I      I    Showthrough/ 


Transparence 


□    Quality  of  print  varies/ 
Quality  in^gaie  de  I'impression 

I      I    Includes  supplementary  material/ 


Comprend  du  materiel  suppl^mentaire 

Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Mition  disponibie 


Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata.  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  4t6  fiimies  d  nouveau  de  fapon  A 
obtenir  *a  meilleure  image  possib'«. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film*  au  taux  de  riduction  indiquA  ci-dessous. 


10X 

14X 

1IX 

22X 

26X 

30X 

/ 

12X 

16X 

20X 

24X 

28X 

32X 

The  copy  filmed  here  hae  been  reproduced  tl  tanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

Thomas  Fisher  Rart  Bode  Library, 
University  of  Toronto  Library 

The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  iceeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbo!  ^»>  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 

iVIaps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


L'exemplaire  film*  f ut  reproduit  grAce  A  la 
gAnArositt  de: 

Thomas  Fisher  Rare  Book  Library, 
University  of  Toronto  Library 

Les  imfiges  suivantes  ont  6tA  reproduites  avec  ie 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  at 
de  la  nettetA  de  l'exemplaire  filmt,  at  en 
conformity  avec  ies  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 

Les  exempiaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprlmAe  sont  filmte  en  commenpant 
par  Ie  premier  plat  at  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
derniire  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustratlon,  soit  par  Ir  second 
plat,  salon  Ie  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exempiaires 
originaux  sont  fiimAs  en  commen^ant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  at  en  terminant  par 
la  derniire  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  dee  symboies  suivants  apparaftra  sur  la 
derniAre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  Ie 
cas:  Ie  symbols  -^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE".  Ie 
symbols  V  signlfie  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  Atre 
fllmAs  A  dee  taux  de  reduction  diffirents. 
Lorsque  ie  document  est  trop  grand  pour  Atre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clichA,  il  est  film*  A  partir 
de  Tangle  supirleur  gauche,  de  gauche  A  droite. 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  Ie  nombre 
d'images  nAcessaire.  Les  die  grammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mAthode. 


12  3 


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GRANT    ALLEN      ^  *' 


author  of  • 

•this  mortal  coil,'  'blood  royal,'  'the  scallywag,'  etc. 


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F.  TENNYSON  NEELY, 
Chicago,  Publisher:  New  York. 

1894. 


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/      copyr'ght  at  washington,  d.  c, 
September,  1894, 

BY 

.     F.  TENNYSON  NfiELY. 


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PREFACE. 


The  story  of  My  First  Book  is  a  good  deal  mixed, 
and,  like  many  other  stories,  cannot  be  fully  under- 
stood without  some  previous  allusion  to  what  his- 
torians call  "the  causes  which  led  to  it."  For  my 
first  book  was  not  ray  first  novel,  and  it  is  the  latter, 
I  take  it,  not  the  former,  that  an  expectant  world,  is 
anxious  to  hear  about.  I  first  blossomed  into  print 
with  Physiological  Esthetics  in  1877 — the  title 
alone  will  be  enough  for  most  people — and  it  was 
not  till  seven  years  later  that  I  wrote  and  published 
my  earliest  long  work  of  fiction,  which  I  called 
Philistia.  I  wasn't  born  a  novelist,  I  was  only  made 
one.  Philosophy  and  science  were  the  first  loves  of 
my  youth.  I  dropped  into  romance  as  many  men 
drop  into  drink,  or  opium-eating,  or  other  bad  prac- 
tices, not  of  native  perversity,  but  by  pure  force  of 
circumstances.  And  this  is  how  fate  (or  an  enter- 
prising publisher)  turned  me  from  an  innocent  and 
impecunious  naturalist  into  a  devotee  of  the  muse 
of  shilling  shockers. 

When  I  left  Oxford  in  1870,  with  a  decent  degree 
and  nothing  much  else  in  particular  to  brag  about, 
I  took  perforce  to  that  refuge  of  the  destitute,  the 
trade  of  schoolmaster.  To  teach  Latin  and  Greek 
verse  at  Brighton  College,  Cheltenham  College, 
Reading  Grammar  School,  successively,  was  the  ex- 
tremely uncongenial  task  imposed  upon  me  by  the 
chances  of  the  universe.  But  in  1873,  Providence, 
disguised  as  the  Colonial  Office,  sent  me  out  in 


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PREFACE. 


charge  of  a  new  Government  College  at  Spanish 
Tov/n,  Jamaica.  I  had  always  been  psychological, 
pnd  in  the  space  and  leisure  of  the  lazy  Tropics,  I 
began  to  excogitate  by  slow  degrees  various  expan- 
sive works  on  the  science  of  mind,  the  greater  num- 
ber of  which  still  remain  unwritten.  Returning  to 
England  in  '76  I  found  myself  out  of  work,  and  so 
committed  to  paper  some  of  riiy  views  on  the  origin 
of  the  higher  pleasure  v/e  derive  from  natural  or 
artistic  products;  and  I  called  my  book  Physiological 
.Esthetics.  It  was  not  my  very  first  attempt  at 
literature;  already  I  had  produced  about  a  hundred 
or  more  magazine  articles  on  various  philosophical 
and  scientific  subjects,  every  one  of  which  I  sent  to 
the  editors  of  leading  reviews,  and  every  one  of 
which  was  punctually  "Declined  with  thanks,"  or 
committed  without  even  that  polite  formality  to  the 
editorial  waste-paper  basket.  Nothing  daunted  by 
failure,  however,  I  wrote  on  and  on,  and  made  up 
my  mind,  in  my  interval  of  forced  idleness,  to  print 
a  book  of  my  own  at  all  hazards. 

I  wrote  Physiological  Esthetics  in  lodgings  at 
Oxford.  When  it  was  finished  and  carefully  revised, 
I  offered  it  to  Messrs.  Henry  S.  King  &  Co.,  who 
were  then  leading  publishers  of  philosophical  liter- 
ature. Mr.  Kegan  Paul,  their  reader,  reported 
doubtfully  of  the  work.  It  was  not  likely  to  pay, 
he  said,  but  it  contained  good  matter,  and  the  firm 
would  print  it  for  me  on  the  usuai  commission.  I 
was  by  no  means  rich — for  fear  of  exaggeration  I 
am  stating  the  case  mildly — but  I  believed  somehow 
in  Physiological  JEsthelics.  I  was  young  then,  ard 
I  hope  the  court  of  public  opinion  will  extend  to 
me,  on  that  ground,  the  inuulgence  usually  shown 


* 


iippiipnppMpiin 


PkEFAC^. 


iii 


to  juvenile  offenders.  But  I  happened  to  possess  a 
little  money  just  at  that  moment,  granted  me  as 
compensation  for  the  abolition  of  my  office  in  Jam- 
Messrs.  King  reported  that  the  cost  of  pro- 


aica. 


duction  (that  mysterious  entity  so  obnoxious  to  the 
soul  of  Mr.  Walter  Besant)  would  amount  to  about 
a  hundred  guineas.  A  hundred  guineas  was  a  lot 
of  money  then ;  but,  being  young,  I  risked  it.  It 
was  better  than  if  I  had  taken  it  to  Monte  Carlo, 
anyway.  So  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Paul  with  heedless  haste 
to  publish  away  right  off,  and  he  published  away 
right  off  accordingly.  When  the  bill  came  in,  it 
was,  if  I  recollect  aright,  somewhere  about  £120. 
I  paid  it  without  a  murmur ;  I  got  my  money's  worth. 
The  book  appeared  in  a  stately  green  cover,  with  my 
name  in  front,  and  looked  very  philosophical,  and 
learned,  and  psychological. 

Poor  Physiological  JEsiheiics  had  a  very  hard 
fate.  When  I  come  to  look  back  upon  the  circum- 
stances calmly  and  dispassionately  now,  I'm  not  en- 
tirely surprised  at  its  unhappy  end.  It  was  a  good 
book  in  its  way,  to  be  sure,  though  it's  me  that  says 
it,  as  oughtn't  to  say  it,  and  it  pleased  the  few  who 
cared  to  read  it;  but  it  wasn't  the  sort  of  literature 
the  public  wanted.  The  public,  you  know,  doesn't 
hanker  after  philosophy.  Darwin,  and  Herbert 
Spencer,  and  the  Editor  of  M'ind^  and  people  of  that 
sort,  tried  my  work  and  liked  it ;  in  point  of  fact, 
my  poor  little  venture  gained  me  at  once,  an  un- 
known man,  the  friendship  of  not  a  few  whose 
friendship  was  worth  having.  But  financially,  Phy- 
siological Esthetics  was  a  dead  failure ;  it  wasn't 
the  sort  of  work  to  sell  briskly  at  the  bookstalls. 
The  reviews,  indeed,  were,  almost  without  exception, 


V    1 

f '  1 


PiiPPiii!PPiiiiiPPi 


ir  PREFACE. 

favorable ;  the  volume  went  off  well  for  a  treatise  of 
its  kind — that  is  to  say,  we  got  rid  of  nearly  800 
copies ;  but  even  so,  it  left  a  deficit  of  some  forty  or 
fifty  pounds  to  the  bad  against  me.  Finally,  the 
remaining  stock  fell  a  victim  to  the  flamos  in  Mr. 
Kegan  Paul's  historical  fire,  when  many  another  stout 
volume  perished  ;  and  that  was  the  end  of  my 
magnum  opus.  Peace  to  its  ashes  !  Mr.  Paul  gave 
me  £15  as  compensation  for  loss  sustained,  and  I 
believe  I  came  out  some  £30  a  loser  by  this,  my  first 
serious  literary  venture.  In  alJi  these  matters,  how- 
ever, I  speak  from  memory  alone,  and  it  is  possible 
I  may  be  slightly  wrong  in  my  figures. 

I  won't  detail  in  fiiU  the  history  of  my  various 
intermediate  books,  most  of  which  were  published 
first  as  newspaper  articles,  and  afterwards  collected 
and  put  forth  on  a  small  royalty.  Time  is  short, 
and  art  is  long,  so  I'll  get  on  at  once  to  my  first 
novel.  I  drifted  into  fiction  by  the  sheerest  acci- 
dent. My  friend,  Mr.  Chatto,  most  generous  of 
men,  was  one  of  my  earlibst  and  staunchest  literary 
supporters.  From  the  outset  of  my  journalistic 
days,  he  printed  my  articles  in  Belgravia  and  the 
Genileman's  Magazine  with  touching  fidelity;  and  I 
take  this  opportunity  of  saying  in  public  that  to  his 
kindness  and  sympathy  I  owe  as  much  as  to  anyone 
in  England.  Mr.  vValter  Besaut  will  have  it  there 
is  no  such  thing  as  "generosity"  in  publishers.  I 
beg  leave  to  differ  from  him.  I  know  tho  commer- 
cial value  of  literary  w^jrk  as  well  as  any  man,  and 
I  venture  to  say  that  both  from  Mr.  Chatto  and 
from  Mr.  Arrowsmith,  of  Bristol,  I  have  met,  time 
and  again,  with  what  I  cannot  help  describing  as 
most  generous  treatment.      One  day  it  happened 


i3?K*|w95t»j?^l 


mll^^^^ 


PREFACE. 

that  I  wanted  to  write  a  scientific  article  on  the  im- 
possibility of  knowing  one  had  seen  a  ghost,  even  if 
one  saw  one.  For  convenience  sake,  and  to  make 
the  moral  clearer,  I  threw  the  argument  into  nar- 
rative form,  but  without  the  slightest  intention  of 
writing  a  story.  It  was  published  in  Belgravia 
under  the  title  of  "  Our  Scientific  Observations  on  a 
Ghost,"  and  was  reprinted  later  in  my  little  volume 
of  Strange  Stories.  A  little  while  after,  to  my  im- 
mense surprise,  Mr.  Ohatto  wrote  to  ask  me  whether 
I  could  supply  him  with  another  story,  like  the  last 
I  had  written,  for  the  Belgravia  Annual.  I  was 
rather  taken  aback  at  this  singular  request,  as  I 
hadn't  the  slightest  idea  I  could  do  anything  at  all 
in  the  way  of  fiction.  Still,  like  a  good  journalist, 
I  never  refuse  an  order  of  any  sort;  so  I  sat  down 
at  once  and  wrote  a  tale  about,  a  mummy  on  the 
ghastliest  and  most  approved  Christmas  number  pat- 
tern. Strtnge  to  say,  Mr.  Chatto  again  printed  it, 
and  what  was  still  more  remarkable,  asked  for  more 
of  the  same  description.  From  that  time  forth,  I 
went  on  producing  short  stories  for  Belgi'aviaj  but 
I  hardly  took  them  seriously,  being  immersed  at 
the  time  in  biological  study.  I  looked  upon  my 
own  pretensions  in  the  way  of  fiction  as  an  amiable 
fad  of  my  kind  friend  Chatto;  and  not  to  prejudice 
any  little  scientific  reputation  I  might  happen  to 
have  earned,  I  published  them  al;  ^nder  the  care- 
fully-veiled pseudonym  of  "J.  Arbuthnot  Wilson." 
I  would  probably  never  have  gone  any  further  on 
my  downward  path  had  it  not  been  for  the  acci- 
dental intervention  of  another  believer  in  my  pow- 
ers as  a  story-writer.  I  had  sent  to  Belgravia  a 
little  tale  about  a  Chinaman,  entitled  "  Mr.  Chung," 


■*■•> 


•5^?' 


PlPliil^liiiiPi 


vi 


PREFACE. 


.^- 


and  written  perhaps  rather  more  seriously  and  care- 
fully than  my  previous  efforts.  This  happened  to 
attract  the  attention  of  Mr.  James  Payn,  who  had 
then  just  succeeded  to  the  editorship  of  the  Corn- 
hill.  I  had  been  a  constant  contributor  to  the  Corn- 
hill  undei  csiie  Stephen's  management,  and  by  a 
singular  coincidence  I  received  almost  at  the  same 
time  two  letters  from  Mr.  Payn,  one  of  them  ad- 
dressed to  me  in  my  own  name,  and  regretting  that 
he  would  probably  be  unable  to  insert  my  scientific 
papers  in  his  magazine  in  future;  the  other,  sent 
through  Chatto  and  Windus  to  the  imaginary  J. 
Arbuthnot  Wilson,  and  asking  for  a  short  story 
somewhat  in  the  style  of  my  "admirable  Mr. 
Chung." 

Encouraged  by  the  discovery  that  so  good  a  judge 
of  fiction  thought  well  of  my  humble  efforts  at 
story-writing,  I  sat  down  at  once  and  produced  two 
pieces  for  the  Cornhill.  One  was  "  The  Keverend 
John  Greedy " — a  tale  of  a  black  parson  who  re- 
verted to  savagery — which  has  perhaps  attracted 
more  attention  than  any  other  of  my  short  stories. 
The  other,  which  I  myself  immensely  prefer,  was 
"  The  Curate  of  Churnside."  Both  were  so  well 
noticed  that  I  began  to  think  seriously  of  fiction  os 
an  alternative  subject.  In  the  course  of  the  next 
year  I  wrote  several  more  sketches  of  the  same  sort, 
which  were  published  either  anonymously  or  still 
under  the  pseudonym,  in  the  Cornhill^  Longman^  s, 
The  Gentleman'' Sf  and  Belgravia.  If  I  recollect 
aright,  the  first  suggestion  to  collect  and  reprint 
them  all  in  a  single  volume  came  from  Mr.  Chatto. 
They  were  published  as  Strange  Stories,  under  my 
own  name,  and  I  thus,  for  the  first  time,  ackuowl- 


M«w;' 


PREFACE, 


Vil 


edged  my  desertion  of  my  earliest  loves — science 
and  philosophy — for  the  less  profound  but  more 
lucrative  pursuit  of  literature. 

Strange  Stories  was  well  received  and  well  re- 
viewed. Its  receition  gave  me  confidence  for  future 
ventures.  Acting  upon  James  Fayn's  advice,  I  set 
to  work  seriously  upon  a  three-volume  novel.  My 
first  idea  was  to  Cal\  it  "Born  Out  of  Due  Time," 
as  it  narrated  the  struggles  of  a  Socialist  thinker  a 
century  in  front  of  his  generation;  but  at  Mr. 
Chatto's  suggestion,  the  title  was  afterwards  changed 
to  Philistia.  I  desired,  if  possible,  to  run  it  through 
the  Cornhillf  and  Mr.  Payn  promised  to  take  it  into 
his  most  favourable  consideration  for  that  purpose. 
However,  when  the  unfinished  manuscript  wao  sub- 
mitted in  due  time  to^^his  editorial  eye,  he  rightly 
objected  that  it  was  far  to  socialistic  for  the  tastes 
of  his  public.  He  said  it  would  rather  repel  thr.n 
attract  readers.  I  was  disappointed  at  the  time.  I 
see  now  that,  as  an  editor,  he  was  perfectly  right ;  I 
was  giving  the  public  what  I  felt  and  thought  and 
believed  myself,  not  what  the  public  felt  and  thought 
and  wanted.  The  education  of  an  English  novelist 
consists  entirely  in  learning  to  subordinate  all  his 
own  ideas  and  tastes  and  opinions  to  the  wishes  and 
beliefs  of  the  inexorable  British  matron. 

Mr.  Chatto,  however,  was  prepared  to  accept  the 
undoubted  risk  of  publishing  Philistia.  Only,  to 
meet  his  views,  the  dinoument  was  altered.  In  the 
original  version,  the  hero  came  to  a  bad  end,  as  a 
hero  in  real  life  who  is  in  advance  of  his  age,  and 
consistent  and  honest,  must  always  do.  But  the 
British  matron,  it  seems,  likes  her  novels  to  "  end 
well ; "  so  I  married  him  off  instead,  and  made  him 


4 


t 


/ 


./ 


'■y 


Pipp 


wm 


ppppppw!?' 


■#^^' 


viii 


PREFACE. 


/ 


^:- 


live  happily  ever  afterward.  Mr.  Chatto  gave  me  a 
lump  sum  down  for  serial  rights  and  copyright,  and 
ran  Philistia  through  the  pages  of  The  Oenileman^s. 
When  it  finally  appeared  in  book  form,  it  obtained 
on  the  whole  more  praise  than  blame,  and,  as  it  paid 
a  great  deal  better  than  scientific  journalism,  it  de- 
cided me  that  my  role  in  life  henceforth  must  be 
that  of  a  novelist.  And  a  novelist  I  now  am,  good, 
bad,  or  indifferent. 

If  anybody  gathers,  however,  from  this  simple 
narrative,  that  my  upward  path  from  obscurity  to  a 
very  modest  modicum  of  popularity  and  success  was 
a  smooth  and  easy  one,  he  is  immensely  mistaken. 
I  had  a  ten  years'  hard  struggle  for  bread,  into  the 
details  of  which  I  don't  care  to  enter.  It  left  me 
broken  in  health  and  spirit,  with  all  the  vitality  and 
vivacity  crushed  out  of  me.  I  suppose  the  object 
of  this  series  of  papers  is  to  warn  off  ingenuous  and 
aspiringyouth  from  the  hardest  worked  and  worst  paid 
of  the  professions.  If  so,  I  would  say  earnestly  to  the 
ingenuous  and  aspiring — "  Brain  for  brain,  in  no 
market  can  you  sell  your  abilities  to  such  poor  ad- 
vantage. Don't  take  to  literature  if  you've  capital 
enough  in  hand  to  buy  a  good  broom,  and  energy 
enough  to  annex  a  vacant  crossing. 

London,  August,  1894.  Grant  Allen. 


CONTENTS 


?;V!;;^r")?i 


,JII  AFTER 

I.  AN  ACCIDENTAL   MEElINa 
J       II.   MRS.   HESSLEORAVK    'AT   ^OME' 

III.  MILLIONAIRE   AND   SAILOR 

IV.  FRATERNAL   AMENITIES 
V.   A  CHANCE   ENCOUNTER 

VL   A  CASE   OF   CONSCIENCE 
Ifn.    MAKING   THEIU   MINDS   UP 
VIII.   A  DIGRESSION  -  -  -  . 

IX.    BY   THE   BLUE   ADUIATIC 
X.   VISITORS   IN   VENICE     - 
XI.   MRS.    HESSLEGRAVE    MISAPPREHENDS 
XII.   A   mother's   DILEMMA 
Xin.   A   MISSING   LOVER 
XIV.   THE   AXMINSTER   PEERAGE 
XV.   IN    A   CATHEDRAL   CITY 
XVI.   WITHOUT   SECURITY      - 
XVII.   THE   HEART   OF  THE    DECOY   DUCK 
XVIII.    PRECONTRACT   OF   MATRIMONY 
)UX.   RK  ENTGI^  MORTIM£I( - 


VAOK 
1 

12 

24 

36 

49 

60 

73 

83 

93 

104 

115 

127 

140 

151 

161 

172 

184 

194 

204 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XX.  A  fa:.iily  council    - 

XXI.   THE   WISE    WOMAN       - 
XXII.   ISLES   OF   WINTER       - 
XXIII.  A  LITKKARY   DEliUT    - 
XXIV.   AN    ANUEL   FROM   THE    WEST  - 
XXV.    THE   MEETING 
XXVI.   A    QUESTION   OF   AUTHORSIIII' 
XXVII.    OONS0IENTIOU8   SCRUPLES      - 
XXVIII.    MORTIMER   STRIKES   HOME      - 
X\IX.    ARNOLD'S    MASTERPIECE 
XXX.   WHAT   ALWAYS  HAPPENS 


PAOI 

214 
225 
286 
245 
256 
268 
278 
289 
298 
810 
820 


h^'       »»- 


K 


;• 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


CHArTER  I. 


AN   ACCIDENTAL   MEETING. 


'TwAS  a  dejected,  dispirited,  sheepish-looking  thron^:^ 
that  gathered,  one  black  Wednesday,  round  tha  big 
back  door  in  Burlington  Gardens.  For  it  was  Taking- 
away  Day  at  the  Eoyal  Academy. 

For  weeks  before  that  annual  holocaust,  many 
anxious  hearts  have  waited  and  watched  in  eager 
suspense  for  the  final  verdict  of  the  Hanging  Com- 
mittee. To  hang  or  not  to  hang — that  is  the  ques- 
tion. But  on  Taking-away  Day  the  terrible  fiat  at 
Hst  arrives;  the  Committee  regret  (on  a  litho- 
graphed form)  that  want  of  space  compels  them  to 
decline  Mr.  So-and-so's  oil-painting,  *  The  Fall  of 
Babylon,'  or  Miss  Whatshername's  water-colour,  *  By 
Leafy  Thames,'  and  politely  inform  them  that  they 
may  remove  them  at  their  leisure,  and  at  their  own 
expense,  from  Burlington  House  by  the  back  door 
aforesaid.  Then  follows  a  sad  ceremony :  the  rejected 
flock  together  to  recover  their  slighted  goods,  and 
keep  one  another  company  in  their  hour  of  humilia- 
tion,   It  is  a  community  of  grief,  a  fellowship  in 

X 


I 

■    \ 

I 

■J,, 

t 

!fi, . 


9  i4T  A//i/?A'Er  K/1LC;£ 

misery.  Each  is  only  sustained  from  withering  under 
the  observant  eyes  of  his  neighbour  by  the  inward 
contrciousness  that  that  neighbour  himself,  after  all,  is 
in  the  self-same  box,  and  has  been  the  recipient  that 
(lay  of  an  identical  letter. 

Nevertheless  it  was  some  consolation  to  Kathleen 
Ilesslegrave  in  her  disappointment  to  observe  the 
varying  moods  and  shifting  humours  of  her  fellow- 
sulierers  among  the  rejected.  She  had  a  keen  sense  of 
the  ridiculous,  and  it  lightened  her  trouble  somewhat 
to  watch  among  the  crowd  the  different  funny  ways  in 
which  other  people  bore  or  concealed  their  own  dis- 
appointment for  her  edification.  There  were  sundry 
young  men,  for  example,  with  long  hair  down  their 
backs  and  loose  collars  of  truly  Byronic  expansiveness, 
whom  Kathleen  at  once  recognised  as  unacclaimed 
geniuses  belonging  to  the  very  newest  and  extremest 
school  of  modern  impressionism.  They  hailed  from 
Newlyn.  These  lordly  souls,  budding  Raphaels  of  the 
future,  strolled  into  the  big  room  with  a  careless  air  of 
absolute  unconcern,  as  who  should  wonder  they  had 
ever  deigned  to  submit  their  immortal  works  tv  the 
arbitrament  of  a  mere  everyday  Hanging  Committee ; 
and  they  affected  to  feel  very  little  surprise  indeed  at 
finding  that  a  vulgar  bourgeois  world  had  disdained 
tlidir  eflforcj.  7hey  disdjiinei.1  the  vulgar  b  )iirj  fois 
world  in  return  with  contempt  at  compound  interest 
visibly  written  on  their  aesthetic  features.  Others, 
older  and  shabbier,  slunk  in  unobserved,  and 
shouldered  their  canvases,  mostly  unobtrusive  land- 
scapes, with  every  appearance  of  antique  familiarity. 
It  was  not  the  first  time  they  had  received  that  insult. 
Yet  others  again — and  these  were  chiefly  young  girls 
— 9,dvanced  blushin«T  and  giggling  a  little  from  sup- 


6,:) 


AN  ACCIDENTAT.  MEETING  3 

pressed  nervousness,  to  recover  with  shame  their 
unvnhied  jmiperty.  Here  and  there,  too,  a  hig 
hurly-Hhouldeved  man  elbowed  his  way  through  the 
crowd  as  though  the  place  belonged  to  him,  and 
hauled  oif  his  ))in(/niim  opus  (generally  a  huge  field  of 
historical  canvas,  *  King  Edward  at  Calais,'  or, 
*  llie  Death  of  Attila  ')  with  a  defiant  face  which 
seemed  to  bode  no  good  to  the  first  Academi- 
cian he  might  chance  to  run  against  on  his  way 
down  Bond  Street.  A  few,  on  the  contrary,  were 
antious  to  explain,  with  unnecessary  loudness  of 
voice,  that  they  hadn't  sent  in  themselves  at  all  this 
year ;  they  had  called  for  a  picture  by  a  friend — that 
was  all,  really.  Kathleen  stood  aside  and  watched 
their  varied  moods  with  quiet  amusement;  it  dis- 
tracted her  attention  for  the  time  from  her  own  poor 
picture.  :  •  .  .:_■■<. 

At  last  she  found  herself  almost  the  only  person 
remaining  out  of  that  jostling  crowd,  with  a  sailor- 
looking  man,  brown  and  bronzed,  beside  her. 

*  "  In  a  Side  Canal ;  Kathleen  Hesslegrave."  Yes, 
this  is  yours,  mum,'  the  porter  said  gruffly.  'But 
you'll  want  a  man  to  take  it  down  to  the  cab  for 
you.' 

Kathleen  glanced  at  her  little  arms ;  they  were  not 
very  strong,  to  be  sure,  though  plump  and  shapely. 
Then  she  looked  at  the  porter.  But  the  porter  stood 
unmoved.  With  a  struggling  little  effort  Kathleen 
tried  to  lift  it.  *  In  a  Side  Canal '  was  a  tolerably 
big  picture,  and  she  failed  to  manage  it.  The  sailor- 
looking  body  by  her  side  raised  his  hat  with  a  smile. 
His  face  was  brown  and  weather-beaten,  but  he  had 
beautiful  teeth,  very  white  and  regular,  and  when  he 
smiled  he  showed  them.    He  looked  like  a  gentleman, 


.;S: 


AT  MARKET  VALUh 


t-  k 


u 


too,  though  he  was  so  roughly  dressed,  with  a  sailor's 
roughness.  '  May  I  help  you?'  he  asked,  as  he  raised 
his  hat.  'We  two  seem  to  be  the  last — I  suppose 
because  we  were  more  modestly  retiring  than  the  rest 
of  them.    This  is  a  good  big  picture.' 

*  Yes,'  Kathleen  answered  regretfully.  *  And  it  took 
me  a  good  long  time  to  paint  it.' 

The  sailor-looking  young  man  glanced  at  the  subject 
carelessly. 

'  Oh,  Venecian  V  he  cried.  '  Why,  how  odd ! 
We're  neighbouis.  Mine's  Venetian,  too.  The  very 
next  canal ;  I  peinted  it  quite  close  to  San  Giovanni  e 
Paolo.' 

'  So  did  I,'  Efithleen  exclaimed,  brightening  up,  a 
little  surprised  at  the  coincidence.  <.    "^    , 

'  When  were  you  there  ?'  ^     . 

'Last  autumn.'  v 

*  Then  I  wonder  we  never  met,'  the  young  man  put 
in  with  another  sunshiny  smile.  '  I  was  working  on 
that  canal  every  day  of  my  life  from  November  to 
January.* 

He  was  carrying  her  picture  as  he  spoke  towards  the 
door  for  a  cab. 

'  Oh,  how  funny !'  Kathleen  exclaimed,  looking 
closer  at  his  features.  '  It's  queer  we  never  hap- 
pened to  knock  up  against  one  another.  And  we 
knew  so  many  people  in  Venice,  too.  Used  you  ever 
to  go  to  the  Martindales*  palazzo  ?' 

The  young  man  smiled  once  more,  this  time  a 
restrained  smile  of  deprecatory  modesty.  If  his  teeth 
were  good,  he  certainly  lost  no  opportunity  of  show- 
ing them. 

'  No ;  I  didn't  know  the  Martindales,'  he  answered 
very  hastily,  as  if  anxious  to  disclaim   the  social 


:::  m\ 


AN  ACCIPESTAL  MEETING 


5 


honour  thus  thrust  upon  liira,  for  the  MartiuduIcS 
lead  Anglo-Venetian  society. 

*  Then,  perhaps,  the  Chcricis  ?'  Kathleen  interposed 
once  more,  with  that  innate  human  desire  we  all  of  us 
feel  to  find  some  common  point  with  every  stranger 
we  run  agti\inst. 

*  No,'  her  new  friend  replied,  looking  graver  now. 
*  Nor  Countess  Cherici  either.  In  point  of  fact,  I  may 
say — except  one  or  two  other  painter-fellows,  if  I  can 
call  myself  a  painter— I  know  nobody  in  Venice.  I 
was  not  in  society.' 

*  Oh !'  Kathleen  answered,  dropping  her  voice 
a  little ;  for,  though  she  was  a  sensible  girl,  in  the 
circle  she  had  been  brought  up  in,  not  to  be  in  society 
was  considered  almost  criminal. 

The  young  man  noted  the  sudden  drop  in  her  voice, 
and  a  curious  little  line  developed  itself  for  a  second 
near  the  corners  of  his  mouth — an  upward  line, 
curving  sideways  obliquely.  It  was  clear  he  was 
amused  by  her  altered  demeanour.  But  he  made  no 
reply.  He  only  bore  the  picture  gravely  to  the  door 
of  the  Academy,  and  there  tried  to  call  the  attention 
of  some  passing  hansom.  But  it  was  clearly  useless. 
They  were  all  engaged  already,  and  the  crush  at  the 
door  was  still  so  great  there  could  be  no  chance  of 
hiring  one  for  another  ten  minutes.  So  the  young 
man  laid  down  the  big  picture  near  the  door,  with  its 
face  propped  up  against  the  entrance  wall,  and  saying 
quietly,  *  I'll  help  you  in  with  it  by-and-by  when  I  see 
any  chance,*  went  back  to  the  inner  room  to  recover 
his  own  Venetian  canvas. 

He  was  gone  a  minute ;  and  when  he  returned, 
Kathleen  could  see  he  almost  ostentatiously  set  his 
own  picture  down  at  some  distance  from  hers,  as 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


though  he  was  little  anxious  to  continue  the  conversa- 
tion. She  was  sorry  for  that.  He  had  seemed  so 
eager  to  help  her  with  such  genuine  kindliness ;  and 
she  was  afraid  he  saw  his  last  remark  about  not  being 
in  society  had  erected  an  instinctive  class-barrier 
between  them.  So,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  she 
left  her  own  work  to  take  care  of  itself,  and  took  a 
step  or  two  forward  toward  her  new  acquaintance's 
ambitious  canvas.  *  You  saw  mine,'  she  said  apolo- 
getically, by  way  of  reopening  conversation  :  *  May  I 
see  yours?  One  likes  to  sit  in  judgment  on  the 
Hanging  Committee.' 

The  young  man  seemed  pleased.  He  had  a  speak- 
ing face,  and  was  handsome  withal,  with  a  seafaring 
handsomeness.  *  Oh  yes,  if  you  like,'  he  answered ; 
'  though  I'm  afraid  you  won't  care  for  it.'  And  he 
turned  the  painted  face  of  the  picture  towards  her. 

*  Eut  why  on  earth  didn't  they  take  it  ?'  Kathleen 
cried  spontaneously,  almost  as  soon  as  she  saw  it. 
*  What  lovely  light  on  the  surface  of  the  water  !  And 
oh !  the  beautiful  red  sails  of  those  Chioggia  fishing- 
boats!'  .  '■;    '■■:, 

*Tm  glad  you  like  it,'  the  stranger  replied,  with 
evident  pleasure,  blushing  like  a  girl.  *  I  don't  care 
for  criticism  as  a  rule,  but  I  love  sincerity ;  and  the 
way  you  spoke  showed  me  at  once  you  were  really 
sincere  about  it.  That's  a  very  rare  quality^-about 
the  hardest  thing  to  get  in  this  world,  I  fancy.' 

*  Yes,  I  was  quite  sincere,'  Kathleen  answered  with 
truth.  *  It's  a  beautiful  picture.  The  thing  I  can't 
understand  is  why  on  earth  they  should  have  re- 
jected it/ 

The  young  man  shrugged  his  shoulctera  and  made 
an  impatient  gesture.    '  They  have  so  many  pictures 


^^mftff^W^^Kms^^ 


Wfm^^^,Kh;^-mfW^ 


AN  ACCIDENTAL  MEETING  7 

to  judge  in  so  short  a  time,'  he  answered  with  a 
tolerance  which  was  evidently  habitual  to  him.  *  It 
doesn't  do  to  exp'^ct  too  much  from  human  nature. 
All  men  are  fallible,  with  perhaps  the  trifling  exception 
of  the  Pope.  We  make  mistakes  ourselves,  some- 
times; and  in  landscape  especially  they  have  such 
miles  to  choose  from.  Not,'  he  went  on  after  a  short 
pause,  '  that  I  mean  to  say  I  consider  my  own  fishing- 
boats  good  enough  to  demand  success,  or  even  to 
deserve  it.  I'm  the  merest  beginner.  I  was  thinking 
only  of  the  general  principle.' 

*  I'm  afraid  you're  a  dreadful  cynic,'  Kathleen  put 
in  with  a  little  wave  of  her  pretty  gloved  hand,  just 
to  keep  up  the  conversation.  She  was  still  engaged 
in  looking  close  into  the  details  of  his  rejected  handi- 
craft. Though  deficient  in  technique,  it  had  marktid 
imagination.  ~  " 

The  stranger  smiled  a  broader  and  more  genial 
smile  than  ever.  *  Oh  no,  not  a  cynic,  I  hope,'  he 
answered  with  emphasis,  in  a  w^ay  that  left  no  doiibt 
about  his  own  sincerity.  *  It  isn't  cynical,  surely,  to 
recognise  the  plain  facts  of  human  nature.  We're-all 
of  us  prone  to  judge  a  good  deal  by  the  most  super- 
ficial circumstances.  Suppose  now,  you  and  I  were 
on  the  Hanging  Committee  ourselves:  just  at  first,  of 
course,  we'd  be  frightfully  anxious  to  give  every  worl; 
the  fullest  and  fairest  consideration.  Responsibiliry 
would  burden  us.  We  would  weigh  each  picture  W(;l!, 
and  reject  it  only  after  due  deliberation.  But  human 
nature  can't  keep  up  such  a  strain  as  that  for  Ion;;; 
together.  We'd  begin  very  fresh,  but  towards  the 
end  of  the  day  we'd  be  dazed  and  tired.  We'd  say : 
"  W^hose  is  that?  Ah  !  by  So-and-so's  son;  a  brother 
U.A,    I  know  his  father.   Well,  it's  not  badly  painted; 


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we'll  let  it  in,  I  think.  What  do  you  say,  Jiggamaree?" 
And  then  with  the  next:  "Who's  this  by,  porter? 
Oh,  a  fellow  called  Smith !  Not  very  distinctive,  ia 
it?  H'm  ;  we've  rejected  every  bit  as  good  already; 
space  is  getting  full.  Well,  put  it  away  for  the 
present,  Jones:  we'll  mark  it  doubtful."  That's 
human  nature,  after  all ;  and  what  we  each  of  us  feel 
we  would  do  ourselves,  we  can  none  of  us  fairly  blame 
in  others.* 

*  But  I  call  that  cynicism,'  Kathleen  persisted,  look- 
ing up  at  him. 

If  the  stranger  was  a  cynic,  he  had  certainly  caught 
the  complaint  in  its  most  genial  form,  for  he  answered 
at  once  with  perfect  good-humour :  *  Oh  no,  I  don't 
think  so.  It's  mere  acceptance  of  the  facts  of  life. 
The  cynic  assumes  a  position  of  censure.  He  implies 
that  human  nature  does  this,  that,  or  the  other  thing, 
which  he,  with  his  higher  and  purer  moral  sense, 
would  never  so  much  aa  dream  of  doing.  Knowledge 
of  the  world  is  not  necessarily  cynicism.  The  cynical 
touch  is  added  to  it  by  want  of  geniality  and  of  human 
tolerance.  It  is  possible  for  us  to  knov^  what  men  and 
women  are  like,  and  yet  to  owe  them  no  grudge  for  it 
— to  recognise  that,  after  all,  we  are  all  of  us  au  fond 
very  nearly  identical.' 

He  spoke  like  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  culture. 
Kathleen  was  a  little  surprised,  now  she  heard  him 
talk,  to  find  him  so  much  more  educated  than  she 
had  at  first  fancied.  For  his  rough  exterior  had 
rather  prejudiced  her  against  the  sailor  -  looking 
stranger.  But  his  voice  was  so  pleasant,  and  his 
smile  so  frank,  that  she  really  quite  admired  him,  in 
spite  of  his  sentiments.  She  was  just  going  to  answer 
him,  in  defence  of  human  nature,  against  his  supposed 


mm^w^smm' 


AN  ACCIDENTAL  MEETING 


strictures,  when  a  voice  in  the  crowd  close  by  dis- 
tracted her  attention.  *  Why,  Miss  Hesslegrave,  there 
you  are  !'  it  cried.  *  I  wondered  if  I  should  see  you. 
Oh,  yes,  indeed,  I  also  am  among  the  killed  and 
wounded.  I've  got  no  fewer  than  three  of  them. 
What,  all  my  pretty  ones !  A  perfect  massacre  of  the 
innocents.  But  there,  the  Hanging  Committee  is  as 
bad  as  its  name.  No  respecter  of  persons.  Kuthless, 
ruthless,  ruthless!  And  Arnold  Willoughby,  too! 
Well,  W^illoughby,  how  are  you?  I  really  didn't 
Vnow  you  two  knew  each  other.* 

*We  don't,'  Kathleen  answered,  taking  the  new- 
comer's hand.  'We've  only  just  met  here.  But 
your  friend's  been  so  kind.  He's  carried  my  poor 
rejected  picture  down  for  me,  and  we're  waiting  for  a 
cab.  It  is  such  a  crush — and  all  of  us  trying  to  pre- 
tend we  don't  mind  about  it !' 

*  Who's  cynical  now  ?'  the  stranger  put  in,  with  a 
mischievous  twinkle  in  his  eye.  *I  do  mind  very 
much  ;  it's  bread  and  butter  to  me ;  and  I  don't  pre- 
tend to  conceal  it.  But  I'll  leave  you  now.  I  see 
you've  found  a  friend,  and  I  can  be  of  no  further 
service  to  you.'  He  raised  his  hat  with  more  grace 
than  Kathleen  could  have  expected  from  those  rough 
sailor-like  clothes :  *  Good-bye,'  he  said ;  '  Mortimer, 
you'll  see  after  the  picture.* 

The  American,  for  he  was  one,  nodded  a  polite 
assent. 

*  How  lucky  I  am.  Miss  Hesslegrave,*  he  murmured, 
*  to  have  met  you  by  accident !  And  talking  to  Wil- 
loughby, too  !  You  can't  think  what  a  conquest  that 
is.*  Ho  glanced  with  some  amusement  after  the 
stranger's  retreating  figure.  *You  know,'  he  said, 
lowering  his  voice,  *  Willoughby's  a  professed  miso- 


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1^ 

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gynist,  or  next  door  to  one,  anyhow ;  this  is  the  very 
first  time  I've  ever  seen  him  speaking  to  a  lady.  Ab 
a  rule,  he  runs  away  from  them  the  moment  he  sees 
one.  It  was  conjectured  in  Venice  among  the  fellows 
who  knew  him  that  he  had  been  what  school-girls 
describe  as  "crossed  in  love,"  he  avoided  them  so 
carefully.  I  sujDpose  the  truth  is  one  of  them  must 
have  jilted  him.' 

*  He  was  very  kind  to  mc,'  Kathleen  interposed 
quietly.  *  He  saw  me  struggling  with  this  great  big 
canvas,  and  he  came  up  to  help  me,  and  was  so  nice 
and  polite  about  it.' 

*Ah  yes,'  the  American  answered,  a  little  lower 
than  before,  with  a  meaning  glance.  *  Kind  to  ijmi, 
Miss  Hesslegrave ;  that  doesn't  prove  much ;  even  a 
confirmed  misogynist  could  hardly  be  less ;  we  must 
allow  for  circumstances.' 

Kathleen  coloured  a  little,  but  didn't  altogether  dis- 
like the  compliment,  for  Mortimer  was  rich — very  rich 
indeed — and  the  acknowledged  catch  of  the  artistic 
American  col6ny  in  Paris.  But  she  turned  the  subject 
hastily. 

'Where  did  you  meet  him?'  she  asked,  looking 
down  at  her  pretty  shoes.  'He's  eo  rough-looking 
outside  ;  yet  he  seems  a  gentleman.' 

*  Oh,  he  is  a  gentleman,  undoubtedly,'  Mortimer 
answered  with  true  American  candour ;  *  a  born 
gentleman,  though  not  quite  the  conventional  one. 
He's  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse,  and  he's  been  a 
sailor,  I  fancy.' 

*  Who  is  he  ?'  Kathleen  asked  with  evident  interest. 

*  Ah,  who  is  he  ?  That's  the  question,'  Mortimer 
answered  mysteriously.  *  He's  a  dark  horse,  I  imagine. 
I  picked  him  up  accidentally  last  autumn  in  Venice. 


*  M 


AN  ACCIDENTAL  MEETING 


II 


He  used  to  lodge  at  a  tiny  Italian  trattoria,  down  a 
flide  canal — not  far  from  my  palazzo — and  live  off 
fritura — you  know  the  sort  of  stuff— iish,  flesh,  and 
fowl,  three  meals  a  penny.' 

'  How  brave  of  him  !'  Kathleen  said  simply.  *  He 
looks  very  nice.  And  all  for  art's  sake,  I  suppose, 
Mr.  Mortimer  ?' 

The  American  laughed.  ^ 

'All  for  poverty's  sake,  I  imagine,'  he  answered 
with  candour.  *  So  he  told  me  himself.  He  didn't 
care  so  much  about  art,  he  said,  as  about  earning  a 
livelihood ;  and  I  really  believe  he  starves  in  his  den 
when  he  sells  no  pictures.' 

'Why  did  he  run  away  from  us?'  Kathleen  asked, 
peering  around  into  the  crowd  to  see  if  she  could 
discover  him. 

'  Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,'  Mortimer  replied,  '  I 
tl\ink  it  was  mainly  because  he  saw  me  come  up  ;  and 
also  because  of  the  faint  intonation  in  your  voice  when 
you  said,  "  We  don't  know  one  another."  Willoughby's 
a  misogynist,  as  I  told  you,  and  he's  also  sensitive, 
absurdly  sensitive — he  might  almost  be  one  of  my 
fellow-countrymen.  I  don't  doubt,  when  you  said 
that,  he  took  it  as  his  dismissal.  He  understood  you 
to  mean,  "Now  I've  done,  sir,  with  you.  Here's 
somebody  else  I  know.  You  may  go  about  your  busi- 
ness." And  being  a  person  who  always  feels  acutely 
when  he's  de  trop,  he  went  about  his  business  at  once, 
accordingly.' 

*  I'm  sorry,'  Kathleen  put  in ;  '  f or  I  really  rather 
liked  him.' 

'Oh,  he's  a  thorough  good  sort,'  the  American 
answered  quickly.  *  He's  sterling,  Willoughby  is. 
Not  at  all  the  sort  of  man  that's  given  away  with  a 


wmmmm 


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pound  of  tea.  None  of  your  cotton-backed  gentlemen. 
You  may  test  him  all  through,  and  you'll  find  from 
head  to  foot  he's  the  genuine  material.* 

'  Couldn't  you  bring  him  with  you  to  tea,  this  after- 
noon ?'  Kathleen  suggested,  half  hesitating.  '  I  think 
mamma  sent  you  an  *at  home'  card  for  Wednesdays.* 

*0h,  I'm  coming,'  the  American  answered  with 
prompt  acquiescence ;  *  I  have  not  forgotten  it.  Miss 
Ilesslegrave ;  is  it  likely  I  should  ?  Well,  no,  I  don't 
think  so.  But  as  for  Willoughby — ah,  there  you 
know,  that's  quite  a  different  matter.  I  don't  suppose 
anything  on  earth  would  induce  him  to  go  to  an  *  at 
home  '  of  anybody's.  He'd  say  it  was  hollow ;  and  he 
despises  hoUowness.  He'll  never  go  in  for  anything 
but  realities.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  think  the  only 
reason  he  spoke  to  you  at  all  at  the  Academy  here  this 
morning  was  because  he  saw  a  chance  of  being  of 
some  practical  service  to  you ;  and  the  moment  the 
practical  service  was  performed,  he  took  the  very  first 
opportunity  that  offered  to  slip  off  and  leave  you. 
That's  Willoughby  all  over.  He  cares  for  nothing  at 
all  in  life  except  its  realities.'  \-\.:^j'..i:o:y--',': 


■^ 


••^^■- y  :V.  CHAPTEK  n.  ^:v■^-^.;^^|:;^^'■}^:i;^•^•i^ 

i:rs.  hesslegrave  'at  home.' 

That  same  afternoon,  Mrs.  Hesslegrave's  little  rooms 
in  a  side  street  in  Kensington  were  inconveniently 
crowd  ad.  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  would  have  been  wounded 
to  the  core  had  it  been  otherwise.  For,  though  she 
was  poor,  she  was  still  *in  Society.*  Every  second 
Wednesday  through  the  ses^son  Mrs.  Ilesslegrave  r§- 


MRS.  HESSLEGRAVE  'AT  HOME* 


1.3 


ceived ;  sooner  would  she  have  gone  without  breakfast 
and  dinner  than  have  failed  to  fill  her  rooms  for  after- 
noon tea  with  '  the  Best  People.'  Indeed,  Mrs.  Hessle- 
grave  was  the  exact  antipodes  of  Arnold  Willoughby. 
'Twas  for  the  appearances  of  life  she  lived,  not  for  its 
realities.  *  It  would  look  so  well,'  *  it  would  look  so 
bad ' — those  were  the  two  phrases  that  rose  oftenest 
to  her  lips,  the  two  phrases  that  summed  up  in  anti- 
thetical simplicity  her  philosophy  of  conduct. 

Therefore  it  "vsas  a  small  matter  to  Mrs.  Hesslegrave 
that  her  friends  were  jostling  and  hustling  each  other 
to  their  mutnal  inconvenience  in  her  tiny  lodgings. 
Their  discomfoi  counted  to  her  for  less  than  nothing. 
It  looks  so  well  to  have  your  *  at  homes '  attended.  It 
looks  so  bad  to  see  them  empty,  or,  worse  still,  filled 
by  the  wrong  sort  of  people. 

•  Oh,  here's  that  dear  Mr.  Mortimer !'  Mrs.  Hessle- 
grave gushed  forth,  rising  with  empressement  as  the 
young  American  entered.  *  How  do  you  do,  Mr. 
Mortimer?  How  good  of  you  to  come!  Kathleen, 
will  you  take  Mr.  Mortimer  into  the  other  room  to 
have  a  cup  of  tea?  I'll  introduce  him  to  you.  Lady 
Barnard,  as  soon  as  ever  he  comes  back.  Such  a 
charming  young  man !'  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  had 
smoothed  her  path  in  life  by  the  judicious  use  of  that 
one  word  charming.  *  He's  an  American,  you  know, 
of  course,  but  not  the  least  like  most  of  them;  so 
cultivated  and  nice,  and  belongs,  I  am  told,  to  a  first- 
rate  old  Philadelphia  family.  Beally,  it's  quite  sur- 
prising what  charming  Americans  one  meets  about 
nowadays — the  best  sort,  I  mean — the  ladies  and 
gentlemen.  You  wouldn't  believe  it,  but  this  young 
man  hasn't  the  slightest'  Yankee  accent ;  he  speaks 
like  an  English   officer,'     Mrg.  Ilessle^rave's   late 


'*a 


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lamented  husband  had  been  a  General  of  Artillery, 
and  she  looked  upon  an  English  officer  accordingly 
as  the  one  recognised  model  of  deportment  and  char- 
acter in  the  two  hemispheres.  *  Besides,  he's  very 
well  olT  indeed,  they  tell  me  ;  he's  iron  in  the  States, 
and  an  artist  in  Paris ;  but  he  practises  art  for  art's 
sake  only,  and  not  as  f*  means  of  livelihood,  like  my 
l)oor  dear  Kathleen.  Such  a  delightful  young  man ! 
You  really  viust  know  aim.' 

Lady  Barnard  smiled,  and  in  less  tho.n  ten  minutes 
was  deep  in  conversation  with  the  *  charming '  Ameri- 
can. And  charming  he  was,  to  say  the  truth ;  for 
once  in  its  life,  Mrs.  Hesslegrave's  overworked  adjec- 
tive of  social  appreciation  was  judiciously  applied  to 
a  proper  object.  The  rich  young  American  had  all 
the  piquant  frankness  and  cordiality  of  his  nation, 
with  all  the  grace  and  tact  of  Parisian  society.  More- 
over, he  was  an  artist ;  and  artists  must  be  surely  poor 
creatures  to  start  with  if  the  mere  accidents  of  their 
profession  don't  make  them  interesting.  He  was 
chatting  away  most  brightly  to  Lady  Barnard  about 
the  internal  gossip  of  Parisian  studios,  when  the  door 
opened  once  more,  and  the  neat-capped  maid  with  the 
long  white  apron  announced  in  her  clearest  official 
voice,  'Canon  and  Mrs.  Valentine!'  -^  '■...      ; 

Their  hostess  rose  once  more  quite  effusively  from 
her  place,  and  advanced  towards  the  new-comers  with 
her  best  smile  of  welcome.  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  had  no 
fewer  than  seven  distinct  gradations  of  manner  for 
.receiving  her  'quests;  and  you  could  gather  at  once 
their  relative  importance  in  the  social  scale  by  observ- 
ing as  they  arrived  with  which  of  the  seven  Mrs. 
Hesslegrave  greeted  them.  It  was  clear,  therefore, 
that  the  Valentines  were  people  of  distinction ;  foj: 


MRS.  HESSLEGRAVE  'AT  HOME* 


IS 


she  moved  forward  towards  the  Canon  and  his  wife 
at  the  door  with  the  sweetest  inclination  of  that  white- 
haired  head.  " 

*  Oh,  how  good  of  you  to  come  !*  she  cried,  clasp- 
ing the  lady's  hand  in  both  her  own.  '  I  know.  Canon 
Valentine,  how  very  much  engaged  you  are !  It  is  so 
sweet  of  you !' 

The  Canon  was  a  fat  little  bald-headed  man,  rather 
waistless  about  the  middle,  and  \vith  a  self-satisfied 
smirk  on  his  smooth  red  countenance.  He  had  the 
air  of  a  judge  of  port  and  horses.  In  point  of  fact, 
he  was  a  solitary  survivor  into  our  alien  epoch  of  the 
almost  extinct  type  of  frankly  worldly  parson. 

*  Well,  we  are  rather  driven,  Mrs.  Hesslegrave,*  he 
admitted  with  a  sigh — heartless  critics  might  almost 
have  called  it  a  puff — pulling  his  white  tie  straight 
with  ostentatious  scrupulosity.  'The  beginning  of 
the  season,  you  see — torn  by  conflicting  claims ;  all 
one's  engagements  before  one  !  But  I've  heard  such 
good  news,  such  delightful  news!  I've  come  here 
straight,  you  know,  from  dear  Lady  Axminster's.' 

'Ah,  yes,*  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  echoed,  glancing 
askance  towards  the  American  to  see  if  he  was 
listening.  *  She  is  so  charming,  isn't  she — ^Lady 
Axminster  ?* 

*  Quite  so,*  the  Cancn  answered.  *  A  very  dear  old 
cousin  of  mine,  as  you  know.  Lady  Barnard ;  and  so 
much  cut  up  about  this  dreadful  business  of  her 
scapegrace  grandson.  Well,  we've  got  a  clue  to  him 
at  last ;  we  really  believe  we've  got  a  genuine  clue  to 
him.* 

*  No,  you  don't  mean  to  say  so  !'  Mrs.  Hesslegrave 
cried,  deeply  interested.  You  would  have  believed 
Lady  Axminster  was  her  dearest  friend,  instead  of 


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being  merely  a  distant  bowing  acquaintance.  'I  thought 
he  had  gone  off  to  South  Africa  or  somewhere.' 

*  What  ?  A  romance  of  the  peerage  ?*  the  young 
American  asked,  pricking  up  his  ears.  'A  missing 
lord?  A  coronet  going  begging?  Lost,  stolen,  or 
strayed,  the  heir  to  an  earldom  1  Is  that  about  the 
size  of  it  ?' 

'Precisely,'  the  Canon  answered,  turning  towards 
him,  half  uncertain  whether  it  was  right  to  encourage 
so  flippant  a  treatment  of  a  serious  subject.  *  You've 
heard  of  it,  no  doubt — this  unfortunate  young  man's 
very  awkward  disappearance?  It's  not  on  his  own 
account,  of  course,  that  the  family  mind ;  he  might 
have  gone  off  if  he  chose,  and  nobody  would  have 
noticed  it.  He  was  always  a  strange,  eccentric  sort 
of  person ;  and  for  my  part,  as  I  say  often  to  dear 
Lady  Axminster,  the  sooner  they  could  get  rid  of  him 
out  of  the  way,  the  better.  But  it's  for  Algy  she 
minds ;  poor  Algy  Eedburn,  who,  meanwhile,  is  being 
kept  out  of  the  family  property.* 

*  Well,  but  this  is  very  interesting,  you  know,* 
Bufus  Mortimer  interjected,  as  the  Canon  paused.  *  I 
haven't  heard  about  this.  Tell  me  how  it  all  hap- 
pened, and  why  you  want  a  clue.  A  missing  link  or 
a  missing  earl  is  always  so  romantic* 

The  Canon  leaned  back  luxuriously  in  his  easy-chair 
and  sipped  at  the  cup  of  tea  Kathleen  Hesslegrave 
had  brought  him.  '    ;  ^  ■ 

*  Thank  you,  my  dear,*  he  said,  rolling  it  critically 
on  his  palate.  *  One  more  lump,  if  you  please ;  I 
always  had  a  sweet  tooth,  though  Sir  Everard  has 
just  cut  me  off  my  sugar.  Says  I  must  take  sac- 
charin; but  there  isn't  any  flavour  in  it.  I'm  thankful 
to  say,  however,  he  hasn't  cut  me  off  my  port,  which 


m. 


i^PiiPPPiiPPP 


MRS.  HESSLEGRAVE  *AT  HOME* 

is  always  something.  Said  he  to  me :  "  I'll  tell  you 
what  it  is,  Canon ;  if  you  drink  port,  you'll  have  the 
gout ;  but  if  you  don't  drink  port,  the  gout  '11  have 
you,**  So  that's  highly  satisfactory.'  And  the  bald- 
headed  old  gentleman  took  another  sip  at  the  sweet 
syrup  in  his  cup,  of  which  the  tea  itself  only  formed 
the  medium. 

'But  how  about  Lord  Axminster?'  the  American 
persisted,  with  the  insistence  of  his  countrymen. 

'Oh,  ah,  poor  Axminster  I'  the  Canon  went  on 
reflectively,  stirring  the  liquid  in  his  cup  with  his 
gilt-bowled  apostle  spoon.  (Mrs.  Hesslegrave  was  by 
no  means  rich,  and  she  lived  in  lodgings,  to  her 
shame,  during  her  annual  visit  to  London,  but  she 
flattered  herself  she  knew  the  proper  way  to  pro- 
vide afternoon  tea  for  the  best  society.)  *  I  was 
coming  to  that.  It's  a  sad,  bad  story.  To  begin 
with,  you  know,  every  romance  of  the  peerage  in- 
volves a  pedigree.  Well,  old  Lady  Axminster— 
that's  my  cousin,  the  dowager — she  had  two  sons ; 
the  eldest  was  the  late  earl;  Mad  Axminster  they 
called  him,  who  married  a  gipsy  girl,  and  was  the 
father  of  the  present  man,  if  he  is  the  present  man — 
that  is  to  say  if  he's  still  living.' 

'  The  missing  lord,  in  fact  ?'  Bufus  Mortimer  put 
in  interrogatively. 

'  Quite  so,'' the  Canon  assented — '  the  missing  lord ; 
who  is,  therefore,  you  will  see,  my  cousin  Maria's 
grandchild.  But  Maria  never  cared  for  the  lad. 
From  his  childhood  upwards,  that  boy  Bertie  had 
ideas  and  habits  sadly  unbefitting  that  station  in  life, 
et  csBtera,  et  csetera.  He  had  always  a  mania  for 
doing  some  definite  work  in  the  world,  as  he  called 
it— soiling  his  hands  in  the  vineries,  or  helping  th© 


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Btable-boys,  or  mending  broken  chairs,  or  pottering 
about  the  grounds  with  an  axe  or  a  shovel.  He  had 
the  soul  of  an  under-gardener.  His  father  was  just 
as  bad ;  picked  up  wonderful  notions  about  equality, 
and  Christian  brotherhood,  and  self-help,  and  so  forth. 
But  it  came  out  worse  in  Bertie — his  name  was 
Albert ;  I  suppose  the  gipsy  mother  had  something 
or  other  to  do  with  it.  I'm  a  great  believer  in 
heredity,  you  know,  Lady  Barnard,  heredity's  every- 
thing. If  once  you  let  any  inferior  blood  like 
that  into  a  good  old  family,  there's  no  knowing 
what  trouble  you  may  be  laying  in  store  for  your- 
self.' 

'But  Galton  says,*  the  young  American  was  bold 
enough  to  interpose,  '  that  all  the  vigour  and  energy 
of  the  British  aristocracy — when  they  happen  to  have 
any — comes  really  from  their  mesalliances ;  from  the 
handsome,  strong,  and  often  clever  young  women  of 
the  lower  orders — actresses  and  so  forth — whom  they 
occasionally  marry.' 

The  Canon  stared  hard  at  him.  These  might  be 
scientific  truths  indeed,  not  unworthy  of  discussion 
at  the  British  Association,  but  they  ought  not  to  be 
unexpectedly  flung  down  like  bomb-shells  in  an  inno- 
cent drawing-room  of  aristocratic  Kensington. 

*  That  may  be  so,'  he  answered  chillily.  *  I  have 
not  read  Mr.  Galton's  argument  on  the  subject  with 
the  care  and  attention  which  no  doubt  it  merits.  But 
gipsies  are  gipsies,  and  monomania  is  monomania — 
with  all  due  respect  to  scientific  authority.  So,  at 
an  early  age,  as  I  was  about  to  observe,  these  bad 
ancestral  traits  began  to  come  out  in  Bertie.  He 
insisted  upon  it  that  he  ought  to  do  some  good  work 
in  the  world — which  was  very  right  and  proper,  of 


MRS.  HESSLEGRAVE  'AT  HOME' 


19 


course ;  I  hope  we  all  of  us  share  his  opinion  on  that 
score,'  the  Canon  continued,  checking  himself,  and 
dropping  for  a  moment  into  his  professional  manner. 
*  But  then,  his  unfortunate  limitation  of  view  to  what 
I  will  venture  to  call  the  gipsy  horizon  made  him  fail 
to  see  that  the  proper  world  in  the  work  of  an  English 
nobleman  is — is * 

'  To  behave  as  sich,'  the  irreverent  young  American 
suggested  parenthetically. 

Canon  Valentine  regarded  him  with  a  peering  look 
out  of  his  small  black  eyes.  He  had  a  vague  suspicion 
that  this  bold  young  man  was  really  trying  to  chaff 
him  ;  and  one  should  abstain  from  chaffing  a  beneficed 
clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England.  But  he  thought 
it  on  the  whole  wisest  and  most  dignified  to  treat  the 
remark  as  a  serious  contribution  to  a  seiious  con- 
versation.      '  -  /  >     ■ 

*  Quite  so,*  he  answered  with  a  forced  smile.  '  You 
put  it  briefly  but  succinctly.  To  fulfil,  as  far  as  in 
him  lies,  the  natural  duties  and  functions  of  his — 
ah'm — exalted  position.  Bertie  didn't  see  that.  He 
was  always  stupidly  wishing  he  was  a  shoemaker  or 
a  carpenter.  If  you  make  a  pair  of  shoes,  he  used 
to  say,  you  do  an  undoubted  and  indubitable  service 
to  the  community  at  large ;  a  man  goes  dryshod  for 
a  year  in  your  handiwork:  if  you  give  a  vote  in 
Parliament  or  develop  the  resources  of  your  own 
estate,  the  value  of  your  work  for  the  world,  he  used 
often  to  tell  me,  was  more  open  to  question.* 

*  Pre-cisely,'  the  American  answ^sred,  with  a  most 
annoying  tone  of  complete  acquiescence. 

The  Canon  stared  at  him  once  more.  He  expected 
such  singular  views  as  his  unfortunate  kinsman's  to 
rouse  at  once  every  sensible  person's  reprobation. 


PS^W:. 


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s.. 


). 


For  he  had  not  yet  discovered  that  the  world  at  large 
is  beginning  to  demand  of  every  man,  be  he  high  or 
low,  that  he  should  justify  his  presence  in  a  civilized 
nation  by  domg  some  useful  work,  in  one  capacity  or 
another,  for  the  community  that  feeds  and  clothes 
and  supports  him. 

*  Very  odd  notions,  indeed,'  he  murmured  half  to 
himself,  as  a  rebuke  to  the  young  American.  *  But 
then,  his  father  was  mad,  and  his  mother  was  a  gipsy 
girl.' 

*  So  at  last  Lord  Axminster  disappeared  ?'  the 
American  continued,  anxious  to  learn  the  end  of  this 
curious  story. 

*  At  last  he  disappeared,*  the  Canon  went  on,  some- 
what dryly.  *  He  disappeared  into  space  in  the  moat 
determined  fashion.  'Twas  like  the  ^irsting  of  a 
soap  bubble.  He  wasn't  spirited  away.  He  took 
good  care  nobody  should  ever  fancy  that.  He  left  a 
letter  behind,  saying  he  was  going  forth  to  do  some 
good  in  the  world,  and  a  power  of  attorney  for  his 
grandmother  to  manage  the  Axminster  property. 
His  father  and  mother  were  dead,  and  Maria  was 
the  nearest  relative  he  had  left  him.  But  he  dis- 
appeared into  space,  drawing  no  funds  from  the  estate, 
and  living  apparently  upon  whatever  he  earned  as  a 
gardener  or  a  shoemaker.  And  from  that  day  to  this 
nothing  has  since  been  heard  of  him.' 

'  Wasn't  there  a  lady  in  the  case,  though  ?'  Mrs. 
Hesslegrave  suggested,  just  to  show  her  familiarity 
with  the  small-talk  of  society. 

The  Canon  recollected  himself. 

*0h  yes;  I  forgot  to  say  that,'  he  answered. 
'You're  quite  right,  Mrs.  Hesslegrave.  It  was 
cherchez  la  femme,  of  course,  as  usual.    Bertie  had 


p^il«ffplpplfp^^ 


MRS.  HESSLEGRAVE  *AT  HOME* 


2t 


been  engaged  to  a  girl  of  whom  he  was  passionately 
fond;  but  she  threw  him  overboard;  I  must  say 
myself,  though  I  never  cared  for  the  boy,  she  threi7 
him  overboard  most  cruelly  and  unjustifiably.  In 
point  of  fact,  between  ourselves,  she  had  a  better 
offer.  An  offer  from  a  marquis,  a  wealthy  marquis. 
Axminster  was  poor,  for  a  man  in  his  position,  you 
understand ;  these  things  are  relative ;  and  the  girl 
threw  him  overboard.  I  won't  mention  her  name, 
because  this  is  all  a  family  matter ;  but  she's  a 
marchioness  now,  and  universally  admired.  Though  I 
must  admit  she  behaved  badly  to  Bertie.' 

*  Shook  his  faith  in  women,  I  expect  ?'  the  American 
suggested. 

*  Entirely,'  the  Canon  answered.  *  That's  just  what 
he  wrote  in  his  last  letter.  It  gave  him  a  distaste  for 
society,  he  said.  He  preferred  to  live  henceforth  in  a 
wider  world,  where  a  man's  personal  qualities  counted 
for  more  than  his  wealth,  his  family,  or  his  artificial 
position.    I  suppose  he  meant  America.* 

*  If  he  did,'  Mortimer  put  in  with  a  meaning  smile, 
*I  should  reckon  he  knew  very  little  ajout  our 
country.'  .  -  > 

*  And  you  say  you've  got  a  clue?'  Mrs.  Hesslegrave 
interposed.    *  What  is  it.  Canon  ?* 

:     The  Canon  wagged  his  head. 

*Ah,  that's  it,'  he  echoed.  *  That's  just  it.  What 
is  it?  Well,  Maria  has  found  out—ilever  woman, 
Maria — that  he  sailed  from  London  three  years  ago, 
under  the  assumed  name  of  Douglas  Overton,  in  a 
ship  whose  exact  title  I  don't  remember— the  Saucy 
something-or-other — for  Melbourne  or  Sydney.  And 
now  we're  in  hopes  we  may  really  track  him.' 

*  But  if  you  don't  care  about  him,  and  the  family's 


mm^ffimii^^^^mm 


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iff-, 


well  quit  of  him,'  the  American  interjected,  *why  on 
earth  do  you  want  to  ?'  <    '    v  :         .    ; 

« Canon  Valentine  turned  to  him  with  an  almost 
shocked  expression  of  countenance. 

*  Oh,  we  don't  want  iofind  him,'  he  said,  in  a  depre- 
catory voice.  *We  don't  want  to  Jind  him.  Very 
much  the  contrary.  What  we  want  to  do  is  really  to 
prove  him  dead ;  and  as  the  Saucy  something-or-other, 
from  London  to  Melbourne,  went  ashore  on  her  way 
out  in  the  Indian  Ocean  somewhere,  we're  very  much 
in  hopes — ^that  is  to  say,  we  fear — or,  rather,  we  ihink 
it  possible,  that  every  soul  on  board  her  perished.* 

'Excellent  material  for  a  second  Tichborne  case,' 
Mrs.  Hesslegrave  suggested. 
The  Canon  pursed  his  lips. 

*  We'll  hope  not,'  he  answered.  'For  poor  Algy's 
sake,  we'll  hope  not,  Mrs.  Hesslegrave.  Algy's  his 
cousin.  Mad  Axminster  had  one  brother,  the  Honour- 
able Algernon,  who  was  Algy's  father.  You  see,  the 
trouble  of  it  is,  by  going  away  like  this  and  leaving  no 
address,  Bertie  made  it  impossible  for  us  to  settle  his 
affairs  and  behave  rightly  to  the  family.  He's  keeping 
poor  ^Jgy  out  of  his  own,  don't  you  see  ?  That's  just 
where  the  trouble  is.* 

*If  he's  dead,'  Rufus  Mortimer  suggested  with 
American  common-sense ;  '  but  not  if  he's  living.* 

*But  we'll  hope '  the  Canon  began;  then  he 

checked  himself  suddenly.  *  We'll  hope,'  he  went  on 
with  a  dexterous  after-thought,  *  this  clue  Maria  has 
got  will  settle  the  question  at  last,  one  way  or  the 
other.' 

*  Oh,  here's  Mrs.  Burleigh  !'  the  hostess  exclaimed, 
rising  once  more  from  her  seat  with  the  manner  suit- 
able for  receiving  a  distinguished  visitor.    *  So  glad 


'iiPliiPPW'iP!^W»fPWp 


MRS.  HESSLEGRAVB  *AT  HOME* 


23 


to  see  you  at  last.  When  did  you  come  up  from 
that  lovely  Norchester?  And  how's  the  dear 
Bishop?' 

*  I  knew  Axuiinster  at  Oxford,'  a  very  quiet  young 
man  in  the  corner,  who  had  been  silent  till  then, 
observed  in  a  low  voice  to  Rufus  Mortimer.  *  I  mean 
the  present  man — the  missing  earl — the  gipsy's  son, 
as  Canon  Valentine  calls  him.  I  can't  say  I  ever 
thought  him  the  least  bit  mad,  except  in  the  way  of 
being  conscientious,  if  that's  to  be  taken  as  a  sign  of 
madness.  He  hated  wine-parties,  which  was  not 
unnatural,  considering  his  grandfather  had  drunk 
himself  to  death,  and  one  of  his  uncles  had  to  be  con- 
fined as  an  habitual  inebriate ;  and  he  liked  manual 
labour,  which  was  not  unnatural  either ;  for  he  was  a 
splendidly  athletic  fellow,  as  fine-built  a  man  as  ever 
I  saw,  and  able  to  do  a  good  day's  work  with  any 
navvy  in  Britain.  But  he  was 'perfectly  sane,  and  a 
martyr  to  conscience.  He  felt  this  girl's  treatment  of 
him  very  much,  I  believe — you  know  who  it  was — 
Lady  Sark,  the  celebrated  beauty ;  and  he  also  felt  that 
people  treated  him  very  diiferently  when  they  knew  he 
was  Lord  Axminster  from  the  way  they  treated  him 
when  he  went  about  the  coast  as  a  common  sailor,  in 
a  little  tub  fishing  yacht,  which  he  was  fond  of  doing. 
And  that  made  him  long  to  live  a  life  as  a  man,  not  as 
an  earl,  in  order  that  he  might  see  what  there  really 
was  in  him.' 

*  A  very  odd  taste,*  the  young  Philadelphian  replied. 
*  Now,  I  for  my  part  like  best  to  live  among  people  who 
know  all  about  me  and  my  grandfather,  the  Vice- 
president,  who  made  the  family  pile ;  because,  when  I 
go  outside  my  own  proper  circle,  I  see  people  only 
value  me  at  my  worth  as  a  man — which  I  suppose 


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must  be  just  about  twelve  shillings  a  week,  and  no 
allowance  for  beer-money.' 

At  the  very  same  moment,  in  the  opposite  corner  of 
the  room.  Canon  Valentine  was  saying  under  his  breath 
to  Mrs.  Hesslegrave : 

*Who  is  that  young  man — the  very  flippant  young 
fellow  with  the  straw-coloured  moustache?  I  can't 
say  at  first  sight  I'm  exactly  taken  with  him.' 

And  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  made  answer  with  the  wisdom 
of  the  serpent : 

*  No,  not  at  first  sight,  perhaps ;  I  can  understand 
that:  he's  American,  of  course,  and  a  leetle  bit 
brusque  in  his  manner,  to  begin  with :  but  when  you 
know  him,  he's  charming.  Has  lovely  rooms  in  Paris, 
near  the  Arc  de  Triomphe ;  and  a  palazzo  in  Venice 
on  the  Grand  Canal ;  and  gives  delightful  receptions. 
He's  taken  a  house  in  Stanhope  Street  this  year  for 
the  season.  I'll  get  him  to  send  you  cards ;  his  after- 
noons are  celebrated :  and  when  you  go  to  Paris,  he'll 
make  everything  smooth  for  you.  He  can  do  so  much ! 
He  has  influence  at  the  Embassy.'  '-■  r     ■ 

American  ?  Yes.  But  what  a  match  he  would 
make,  after  all,  for  dear  Kathleen  1  ;~  .  ^  v, 


CHAPTEE  m. 


MILLIONAIRE    AND   SAILOR. 


"While  these  things  were  being  said  of  him  in  the  side 
street  in  Kensington,  Albert  Ogilvie  Eedbum,  seventh 
Earl  of  Axminster,  alias  Arnold  Willoughby,  alias 
Douglas  Overton,  was  walking  quietly  by  himself  down 


yipjJIPPiii'OJfyppw 


-.'-w^';tj<P<S» 


MILLIONAIRE  AND  SAILOR 


25 


Piccadilly,  and  not  a  soul  of  all  he  met  was  taking  the 
slightest  notice  of  him.  -        \ 

It  was  many  years  since  he  had  last  been  in  town, 
and,  accustomed  as  he  was  to  his  changed  position, 
the  contrast  could  not  fail  to  strike  him  forcibly. 
Ladies  he  had  once  known  dashed  past  him  in  smart 
victorias  without  a  nod  or  a  smile  ;  men  he  had  often 
played  with  at  the  Flamingo  Club  stared  him  blankly 
in  the  face  and  strolled  by,  unrecognising ;  the  cross- 
ing-sweeper at  the  corner,  who  used  to  turn  up  to  him 
a  cringing  face,  with  a  *  Gi'  me  a  penny,  my  lord,' 
now  scarcely  seemed  to  notice  his  presence  on  the 
pavement.  *  If  you  really  wan^  to  know  how  insigni- 
ficant your  are,'  Arnold  thought  to  himself  for  the 
fiftieth  time,  'viewed  as-  a  mere  human  being,  all 
you've  got  to  do  is  just  to  doff  your  frock-coat,  pull 
the  flower  from  your  button-hole,  forget  you're  a  lord, 
and  come  down  to  the  ordinary  level  of  work-a-day 
humanity.  It's  a  hard  life  before  the  mast,  on  a 
Dundee  sealer ;  and  it's  almost  harder  in  its  way,  this 
trying  to  earn  enough  to  live  upon  with  one's  pencil ; 
but  it's  worth  going  through,  after  all,  if  only  for  the 
sake  of  feeling  one's  self  face  to  face  with  the  realities 
of  existence.  I  never  should  have  found  out,  now, 
how  poor  a  creature  I  really  was— or  how  strong  a  one 
either — if  I  hadn't  put  my  worth  quite  fairly  to  the 
test  in  this  practical  manner.  It  makes  a  man  realise 
his  market  value. — As  it  is,  I  know  I'm  a  tolerable 
A.B.,  and  a  very  mediocre  hand  at  a  paying  sea- 
scape.' 

It  was  not  without  difficulty,  indeed,  that  Arnold 
Willoughby  (to  call  him  by  the  only  name  that  now 
generally  belonged -to  him)  had  managed  thus  to 
escape  his  own  personality.     Many  young  men  of 


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twenty-seven,  it  is  true,  might  readily  shuffle  off  their 
friends  and  acquaintances,  and  might  disappear  in  the 
common  ruck,  no  man  suspecting  them ;  though  even 
for  a  commoner,  that's  a  far  more  difficult  task  than 
you  might  imagine,  when  you  come  to  try  it.  But 
for  a  peer  of  the  realm  to  vanish  into  space  like  a 
burnt-out  fire-balloon  is  a  far  more  serious  and 
arduous  undertaking.  He  knows  so  many  men,  and 
so  many  men  know  him.  So,  when  Albert  Ogilvie 
Eedburn,  Earl  of  Axminster,  made  up  his  mind  to 
fade  away  into  thin  air,  giving  place  at  last  to  Arnold 
Willoughby,  he  was  forced  to  do  it  with  no  small 
deliberation. 

It  would  not  be  enough  for  him  to  change  no  more 
than  his  name  and  costume.  In  London,  New  York, 
Calcutta,  Eio,  Yokohama,  there  were  people  who  might 
any  day  turn  up  and  recognise  him.  His  disguise,  to 
succeed,  must  be  better  than  superficial.  But  he  was 
equal  to  the  occasion.  He  had  no  need  for  hurry ; 
it  was  not  as  though  the  police  were  on  his  track  in 
hot  haste;  time  after  time,  his  disguise  might  be 
detected,  but  he  could  learn  by  his  errors  how  to  make 
it  safer  for  the  future.  His  one  desire  was  to  get  rid 
for  ever  of  that  incubus  of  a  historical  name  and  a 
great  position  in  the  county  which  made  it  impossible 
for  him  to  know  life  as  it  was,  without  the  cloaks  and 
pretences  of  ^.unkeys  and  sycophants.  He  wished  to 
find  out  his  own  market  value. 

His  first  attempt,  therefore,  was  to  ship  on  board  an 
outward-bound  vessel  as  a  common  sailor.  From 
childhood  upward  he  had  been  accustomed  to  yachts, 
and  had  always  been  fond  of  managing  the  rigging. 
So  he  found  little  difficulty  in  getting  a  place  on  board 
daring  a  sailors'  strike,  and  making  a  voyage  as  far  as 


^-WIPPIPPI 


MILLIONAIRE  AND  SAILOR 


27 


Gape  Town.  At  the  Cape,  he  had  transferred  himself 
by  arrangement  on  purpose  to  a  homeward-bound 
ship ;  partly  in  order  to  make  it  more  difficult  for  his 
cousins  to  trace  him,  but  partly,  too,  in  order  to  return 
a  little  sooner  to  England.  He  thus  accidentally  es- 
caped the  fate  to  which  Canon  Valentine  so  devoutly 
desired  to  consign  him  in  the  Indian  Ocean.  Arriving 
home  in  his  common  sailor  clothes,  at  Liverpool  he 
determined  to  carry  out  a  notable  experiment.  He 
had  read  in  a  newspaper  which  he  found  on  board  a 
most  curious  account  of  one  Silas  Quackenboss,  an 
American  face  doctor,  who  undertook  to  make  the 
plainest  faces  beautiful,  not  by  mere  skin-deep  devices, 
but  by  surgical  treatment  of  the  muscles  and  cartilages 
of  the  human  countenance.  The  runaway  earl  made 
up  his  mind  to  put  himself  through  a  regular  course 
of  physical  treatment  at  the  hands  of  this  dis- 
tinguished American  Professor  of  the  art  of  disguises. 
The  result  exceeded  his  utmost  expectations.  His 
very  features  came  out  of  the  process  so  altered  that, 
as  the  Professor  proudly  affirmed,  *  India-rubber 
wasn't  in  it,'  and  *  His  own  mother  wouldn't  have 
known  him.'  It  was  no  mere  passing  change  that 
had  thus  been  effected;  he  was  externally  a  new 
person :  the  man's  whole  expression  and  air  were 
something  quite  different.  The  missing  earl  had 
arrived  at  Liverpool  as  Douglas  Overton ;  he  left  it 
three  weeks  later  as  Arnold  Willoughby,  with  an 
almost  perfect  confidence  that  not  a  soul  on  earth 
would  ever  again  be  able  to  recognise  him. 

Of  course,  h:  had  not  confided  the  secret  of  hia 
personality  to  the  A.merican  quack,  who  probably  be- 
lieved he  was  assisting  some  criminal  to  escape  from 
justice,  and  who  pocketed  his  fee  in  that  simple  belie! 


28 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


without  a  qualm  o!  conscience.  So,  when  he  sailed 
from  Liverpool  again  in  his  new  character  as  Arnold 
Willoughby,  it  was  in  the  confident  hope  that  he  had 
shuffled  off  for  ever  his  earldom,  with  its  accompany- 
ing limitations  of  view,  and  stood  forth  before  the 
world  a  new  and  free  man,  face  to  face  at  last  with 
the  realities  and  difficulties  of  normal  self-supporting 
human  existence.  *  Now  I  live  like  a  man,'  Nero  said 
to  himself,  when  he  had  covered  half  the  site  of  burnt 
Eome  with  his  Golden  House.  *  Now  I  live  like  a 
man,'  the  self-deposed  earl  exclaimed  in  the  exact 
opposite  spirit,  as  he  munched  the  dry  biscuit  and 
coarse  salt  pork  of  the  common  sailor  on  the  Dudley 
Castle. 

Three  yeais  at  sea,  however,  began  to  tell  in  time 
even  upon  Arnold  Willoughby's  splendid  physique; 
he  had  to  acknowledge  at  last  that  early  training  to 
hardships,  too,  counts  for  something.  His  lungs,  it 
turned  out,  were  beginning  to  be  affected.  He  con- 
sulted a  doctor ;  and  the  doctor  advised  him  to  quit 
the  sea,  and  take  up,  if  possible,  with  some  more 
sedentary  indoor  occupation.  Above  all,  he  warned 
him  against  spending  the  winters  in  northern  seas,' 
and  recommended  him,  if  a  land-lubber's  life  was  out 
of  the  question,  to  ship  as  much  as  practicable  in  the 
colder  months  for  tropical  voyages.  Arnold  smiled 
to  himself  at  the  very  different  spirit  in  which  the 
medical  man  approached  the  sailor's  case  from  the 
way  in  which  he  would  have  approached  the  case  of 
Lord  Axminster ;  but  he  was  accustomed  by  this  time 
to  perfect  self-repression  on  all  these  matters.  He 
merely  answered,  touching  an  imaginary  hat  by  pure 
force  of  acquired  habit  as  he  spoke,  that  he  thought 
he  knew  a  way  in  which  he  could  earn  a  decent  liveli- 


iiiiiiiiMiiiiiipp^Pili^^  'P  '!Piiyfi 


MILLIONAIRE  AND  SAILOR 


29 


hood  on  shore  if  he  chose ;  and  that  he  would  avoid 
in  future  winter  voyages  in  high  latitudes.  But  as 
the  bronzed  and  weather-beaten  sailor  laid  down  his 
guinea  manfully  and  walked  out  of  the  room,  the 
doctor  said  to  himself  with  a  little  start  of  surprise, 
'  That  man  speaks  and  behaves  with  the  manners  of 
a  gentleman.' 

When  Arnold  Willoughby,  as  he  had  long  learned  to 
call  himself,  even  in  his  own  mind  (for  it  was  the 
earnest  desire  of  his  life  now  to  fling  away  for  ever  the 
least  taint  or  relic  of  his  original  position)  began  to 
look  about  him  for  the  means  of  earning  that  honest 
livelihood  of  which  he  had  spoken  so  confidently  to  the 
doctor,  he  found  in  a  very  short  time  it  was  a  more 
difficult  task  than  he  had  at  first  contemplated.    He 
did  not  desire,  indeed,  to  give  up  the  sea  altogether. 
The  man  who  carries  useful  (y)mmodities  from  country 
to  country  fulfils  as  undeniable  a  service  to  the  State 
as  the  man  who  mak/BS  a  pair  of  good  shoes,  or  builds 
a  warm  house,  or  weaves  a  yard  of  broadcloth.    And 
of  such  visible  and  tangible  service  to  his  fellow  men, 
Arnold  Willoughby  was  profoundly  enamoured.    He 
couldn't  bear  to  give  up  his  chosen  profession  in  spite 
of,  or  perhaps  even  because  of,  its  undeniable  hardships. 
Still,  he  didn't  desire  to  commit  what  would  be  prac- 
tical suicide  by  remaining  at  sea  through  the  northern 
winter.    It  occurred  to  him,  therefore,  that  he  might 
divide  his  time  between  winter  and  summer  in  different 
pursuits.    He  had  always  had  a  great  inherited  taste 
for  art,  and  had  studied,  *  when  he  was  a  gentleman,' 
as  he  used  to  phrase  it  to  himself,  in  a  Paris  studio. 
There  he  had  acquired  a  fair  though  by  no  means 
exhaustive  knowledge  of  the  technique  of  painting, 
and  he  determined  to  try,  for  one  winter  at  least. 


mm^m^msm^mmiW^Wfllllff^^ 


30 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


¥' 


whether  he  could  supplement  the  sea  by  his  pictorial 
talent. 

But  it  is  one  thing  to  paint  or  sing  or  write  for  your 
own  amusement  as  an  amateur,  and  quite  another 
thing  to  take  up  any  of  these  artistic  pursuits  as  a 
means  of  livelihood.  Arnold  soon  found  he  would  have 
enough  to  do  to  get  through  the  winter  at  Venice  on 
his  own  small  savings.  "When  he  left  Membury  Castle, 
near  Axminster,  three  years  before,  he  left  it  and  all  it 
meant  to  him  behind  him  for  ever.  He  had  taken  a 
solitary  half-crown  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  that  being 
the  traditional  amount  with  which  the  British  sailor 
is  supposed  to  leave  home ;  and  he  had  never  again 
drawn  upon  the  estate  for  a  penny.  He  didn't  want 
to  play  at  facing  the  realities  of  life,  but  really  to  face 
them.  If  he  could  fall  back  from  time  to  time  upon 
the  Axminster  property  to  tide  him  over  a  bad  place, 
he  would  have  felt  himself  an  impostor — an  impostor 
to  himself,  untrue  to  his  own  inmost  beliefs  and  con- 
victions. Whether  he  was  right  or  wrong,  at  any  rate 
he  felt  so.  He  wanted  to  know  what  he  was  really 
worth.  He  must  stand  or  fall  by  his  own  efforts  now, 
like  the  enormous  mass  of  his  fellow-countrymen. 

So  all  that  winter  in  Venice,  the  resolute  young 
man,  now  inured  to  penury,  lived,  as  Eufus  Mortimer 
put  it,  down  a  side  canal  off  Italian  fritura  at  three 
meals  a  penny ;  lived,  and  thrived  on  it,  and  used  up 
his  savings:  and  appeared  at  last  in  London  that 
spring  with  the  picture  he  had  painted,  anxious  to  pit 
himself,  in  this  as  in  other  things,  on  equal  terms 
against  his  fellow-craftsmen. 

As  he  walked  down  Piccadilly,  gazing  somewhat 
aimlessly  into  the  windows  of  the  picture  shops,  and 
wondering   whether   anybody  would   ever   buy   his 


Ji|W.i||IIJipj.|.n  liJiipj 


MILLIONAIRE  AND  SAILOR 


31 


'Chioggia  Fisher-boats,'  he  suddenly  felt  a  hand 
clapped  on  his  shoulder,  and  turned  round,  half  terri- 
fied, to  observe  who  stopped  him.  Had  some  member 
of  his  old  club,  in  front  of  which  he  was  just  passing, 
seen  through  the  double  disguise  of  burnt  skin  and 
altered  features  ?  But  no.  He  recognised  at  a  glance 
it  was  only  Bufus  Mortimer,  tired  of  the  inanities 
of  afternoon  tea  at  Mrs.  Hesslegrave's  rooms,  and 
escaping  from  the  Canon  on  the  Tithes  Commutation 
Bill. 

*  For  what  port  are  you  bound  ?'  the  young  Ameri- 
can asked,  running  his  arm  spontaneously  through 
his  casual  acquaintance's ;  and  Arnold  liked  him  for 
the  action,  it  was  so  frank  and  friendly. 

*  No  port  in  particular,'  Willoughby  answered  with 
his  cheery  smile.  'I'm  ''ri\an  out  of  my  course — 
storm-bound,  in  point  of  fact,  and  scudding  under  bare 
poles  in  search  of  a  harbour.' 

The  American  seized  at  once  upon  the  meaning  that 
underlay  this  quaint  nautical  phraseology.  'I  sus- 
pected as  much,'  he  replied,  with  genuine  good-nature, 
looking  hard  at  his  man.  '  It  was  a  disappointment 
to  you,  I'm  afraid,  not  getting  your  picture  taken.' 

The  sailor  half-coloured.  He  was  prepared  for 
almost  anything  on  earth  except  sympathy.  *  Oh, 
not  much,'  he  answered  with  his  breezy  carelessness 
— the  brisk  nonchalance  of  the  born  aristocrat  was  one 
of  the  few  traits  of  his  rank  and  class  he  had  never 
even  attempted  to  get  rid  of,  consciously  or  uncon- 
sciously.  *I  should  have  liked  to  have  it  taken,  of 
course;  but  if  it  isn't  worth  taking,  why  it'll  do  me 
good  to  be  taught  my  proper  place  in  the  scale  of 
humanity  and  tLe  scale  of  painters.  One  feels  at 
least  one  has  beeu  judged  with  the  ruck,  and  that's 


7fffr 


33 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


always  a  comfort.  One*s  been  beaten  outright,  on  a 
fair  field  and  no  favour.' 

'It's  a  queer  sort  of  consolation,'  the  American 
answered,  smiling.  'For  my  own  part,  I'm  in  the 
same  box,  and  I  confess  I  don't  like  it.  Though, 
with  me,  of  course,  it  doesn't  matter  financially ; 
it's  only  my  amour  propre,  not  my  purse,  that's  hurt 
by  it.'  '  .  ,; 

Arnold  liked  this  frank  recognition  of  the  gulf 
between  their  positions.  '  Well,  that  does  make  a  differ- 
ence,' he  said;  'there's  no  denying  it.  I  counted 
upon  selling  this  picture  to  go  on  painting  next  winter. 
As  it  is,  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  turn  to  some  other 
occupation.  I  can't  earn  enough  at  sea  in  one 
summer  to  keep  me  alive  and  find  me  in  painting 
materials  during  the  winter  after  it.' 

Bufus  Mortimer  gave  a  sudden  little  start  of  sur- 
prise. 

'  "Why,  I  never  thought  of  that !'  he  cried.  *  One- 
half  the  world  doesn't  know  how  the  other  half  lives 
— in  spite  of  the  constant  efforts  of  the  society 
journaUsts  to  enlighten  it  on  the  subject.  I  suppose 
to  you,  now,  canvas  and  paint,  and  so  forth,  cost 
something  considerable.  And  yet  one  never  before  so 
much  as  thought  of  them  as  an  element  in  one's 
budget.* 

*  They're  a  very  serious  item,'  Arnold  answered,  with 
that  curious  suppressed  smile  that  was  almost  habitual 
to  him. 

'Then,  what  do  you  mean  to  do?'  the  American 
asked,  turning  round  upon  him. 

*  I  hardly  know  yet  myself,'  Arnold  answered,  still 
carelessly.  'It  doesn't  much  matter.  Nothing  matters, 
in  point  of  fact ;  and  if  it  does,  never  mind — I  mean 


^»!?iPPH?i!Pf?5^;,^'»  _1W*J|;     *'<ii? 


m 


MILLIONAIRE  AND  SAILOR 


33 


to  say,  personally.    One  lone  ant  in  the  hive  is  hardly 
worth  making  a  fuss  about.' 
'Where  are  you  going  to  dine?'  the  American  put  in 

with  a  sudden  impulse. 

Thus  unexpectedly  driven  to  close 'quarters,  Arnold 

replied  with  equal  truth  and  candour : 

*  I'm  not  going  to  dine  anywhere.  To  say  the  plain 
fact,  I  didn't  think  of  dining.' 

'Why  not?' Mortimer  persi  ted. 

'Because,'  the  other  answered,  with  a  very  amused 
look,  'I  don't  happen  to  possess  the  wherewithal  to 
dine  upon.' 
X  '  Have  a  chop  with  me  at  the  Burlington,*  the 

■   American  interposed  with  genuine  friendliness,  'and 
f  ■  let's  talk  this  over  afterwards.' 
/  'If  I'd  meant  to  accept  an  invitation  to  dinner,* 

the  sailor  answered  proudly,  with  just  a  tinge  of  the 
earl  showing  dimly  through,  *I  would  certainly  not 
■u  have  mentioned  to  you  that  I  happened  to  be  minus 
one.' 

Mortimer  looked  at  him  with  a  puzzled  air. 

'  Well,  you  are  a  queer  fellow !'  he  said.  *  One  can 
never  understand  you.  Do  you  really  mean  to  say 
you're  not  going  to  dme  at  all  this  evening  ?' 

'  Sailors  learn  to  go  short  in  the  matter  of  food  and 
sleep,*  Arnold  replied,  with  a  faint  shrug.  'It  becomes 
a  second  nature  to  one.  I'm  certain  you're  thinking  a 
great  deal  more  of  it  than  I  am  myself  this  moment. 
Let  me  be  perfectly  open  w'th  you.  I've  reached  my 
last  penny,  except  the  few  shillings  I  have  in  my 
pocket  to  pay  my  landlady  down  at  Wapping.  Very 
well,  then,  it  would  be  dishonest  of  me  to  dine  and 
i^ave  her  un|)aid.    So  I  must  ^o  without  anything  tq 


34 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


eat  to-night,  and  look  about  me  to-morrow  for  a  ship 
to  sail  in.' 

*  And  next  winter  ?'  Mortimer  asked. 

*  Well,  next  winter,  if  possible,  I  sball  try  to  paint 
again.  Should  that  fail,  I  must  turn  my  hand  to  some 
other  means  o(  livelihood.' 

*  What  a  philosopher  you  are !'  the  American  ex- 
claimed, astonished.  *  And  what  a  lesson  to  fellows 
like  us,  who  were  born  and  brought  up  in  the  lap  of 
luxury,  and  complain  to  the  committee  if  the  chef  at 
the  club  serves  up  our  cutlets  without  sauce  piquante  ! 
But  there!  I  suppose  you  other  chaps  get  used 
to  iii.' 

Albert  Ogilvie  Eedbum^  seventy^  Earl  of  Axminster, 
smiled  once  more  that  quiet  little  self-restrained  smile 
of  his ;  but  Arnold  Willoughby  it  was  who  replied  with 
good  humour : 

*  I  suppose  we  do.  At  any  rate,  I  shall  try  to  ship 
southward  to-morrow.' 

*  Shall  I  tell  you  the  truth  ?'  the  young  American 
asked  suddenly. 

*  It's  the  one  desire  of  my  life  to  hear  it,'  Arnold 
answered  with  sincerity. 

*  Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is ;  I  like  you  very  much, 
and  I  admire  you  immensely.  I  think  you're  solid. 
But  I  watched  those  Chioggia  boats  of  yours  when 
you  were  painting  them  at  Venice.  You're  a  precious 
clever  fellow,  and  you  have  imagination,  and  taste, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing ;  but  your  technique's  defi- 
cient. And  technique's  everything  nowadays.  You 
don't  know  enough  about  painting,  that's  the  truth, 
to  paint  for  the  market.  What  you  want  is  to  go  for 
a  year  or  two  to  Paris,  and  study,  study,  study  as 
Jiard  as  you  can  work  a,t  it.     Axt's   an   exacting 


.-,'■  K 
'  ■  ■-'  ;  >*■■■  . 


■•-! 


m 


n 


w>. 


e-f^f^-'^,  ■•'■■■ 


MILLIONAIRE  AND  SAILOR 


35 


mistress.  She  claims  the  whole  of  you.  It's  no  good 
thinking  nowadays  you  can  navigate  half  the  year  and 
paint  the  other  half.  The  world  has  revolved  out  of 
that  by  this  time.  You  should  give  up  the  sea  and 
take  to  art  quite  seriously.' 

'Thank  you  for  your  kindness  and  frankness,' 
Arnoid  replied  with  genuine  feeling,  for  he  saw  the 
American  was  doing  that  very  rare  thing — really 
thinking  about  another  person's  interests.  *  It's  good 
of  you  to  trouble  yourself  about  my  professional 
prospects.' 

*  But  don't  you  agree  with  me  ?'  -       * 

*  Oh,  perfectly.    I  see  I  still  sadly  want  training.* 
There  was  a  moment's  pause.    Then  the  American 

spoke  again. 

'What  are  you  going  to  do,*  he  asked,  'about 
your  Chioggia  Fisher-boats,  if  you  mean  to  sail  to- 
morrow ?' 

*  I  had  thought  of  offering  them  on  commission  to 
some  dealer ;  and  if  nobody  rose  to  the  fly,  taking  the 
canvas  back  again  to  Venice  next  winter,  and  painting 
it  over  with  another  picture.' 

Eufus  Mortimer  paused  a  moment.  This  was  a 
delicate  matter.  Then  he  said,  in  a  rather  constrained, 
half-hesitating  way : 

'Suppose  you  were  to  leave  it  with  me,  and  see 
whether  I  could  manage  or  not  to  dispose  of  it  ?' 

A  round  red  spot  burned  bright  in  Arnold 
Willoughby's  cheek.  He  flushed  like  a  girl  with 
sudden  emotion..  All  the  rent-roll  of  the  Axminster 
estates  was  waiting  for  him  in  Lincoln's  Inn,  if  he 
had  cared  to  take  it;  but,  by  his  own  deliberate  design, 
he  had  cut  himself  off  from  it ;  and,  sink  or  swim,  he 
would  not  now,  after  putting  hifl  hand  to  the  plough, 


36 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


turn  back  again.  He  would  starve  sooner.  But  the 
generous  offer  thus  delicately  cloaked  half  unmanned 
hia  resolution. 

*My  dear  fellow,*  he  exclaimed,  turning  round  to 
the  American,  *  how  much  too  good  you  are !  Not  for 
worlds  would  I  leave  it  with  you.  I  know  what  you 
mean,  and  I  am  no  less  grateful  to  you  than  if  I 
accepted  your  offer.  It  isn't  often  one  meets  with  such 
genuine  kindness.  But  for  character's  sake,  I  prefer 
to  worry  through  my  own  way,  unaided.  That's  a 
principle  in  life  with  me.  But  thank  you  all  the  same; 
thank  you,  thank  you,  thank  you !' 

He  stood  for  a  moment  irresolute.  Tears  trembled 
in  his  eyes.  He  could  put  up  with  anything  on  earth 
but  kindness.  Then  he  wrung  his  friend's  hand  hard, 
and  with  a  sudden  impulse  darted  down  a  side  street 
in  the  direction  of  St.  James's. 

The  American  gazed  after  him  with  no  little 
interest. 

*  That's  a  brave  fellow,'  he  said  to  himself,  as  Arnold 
disappeared  round  a  corner  in  the  distance.  *  But  he 
won't  go  down  just  yet.  He  has  far  too  much  pluck 
to  let  himself  sink  easily.  I  expect  I  shall  find  him 
next  autumn  at  Venice.' 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

FBATERNAL    AMENITIES. 

The  season  was  waning  towards  its  latter  end ;  Mrs. 
Hesslegrave  and  Kathleen  were  on  the  eve  of  flight 
for  their  regular  round  of  autumn  visits  in  the 
country,  before  returning  to  their  winter  quarters  at 


FRATERNAL  AMENITIES 


37 


Venice.  These  autumn  visits  were  half  friendly, 
half  professional.  It  was  one  of  the  griefs  of  Mrs. 
Hesslegrave's  life,  indeed,  that  Kathleen's  vocation 
as  an  artist  compelled  her  to  do  and  to  suffer  many 
things  which  in  her  mother's  eyes  were  undignified, 
and  almost  unladylike.  Foremost  among  them  was 
the  necessity,  when  visiting  in  the  country,  for  carry- 
ing her  portfolio  of  sketches  along  with  her;  for 
Kathleen's  success  was  merely  a  private  and  local 
one;  she  depended  largely  for  selling  her  pictures 
upon  the  friendly  appreciation  of  her  own  acquaint- 
ances. It  is  true,  being  a  timid  and  retiring  girl, 
she  never  thrust  her  work  incontinently  upon  her 
hosts ;  on  the  contrary,  she  was  nervously  shy  about 
anything  that  looked  like  self-advertisement  or  push- 
ing. Still,  the  fact  remained  that  unless  she  went  a 
round  of  country  visits  in  the  autumn  she  would 
never  have  sold  most  of  her  pictures  at  all ;  and  this 
fact,  which  gave  Kathleen  herself  no  small  shrink- 
ings  of  natural  delicacy,  covered  Mrs.  Hesslegrave 
in  a  very  different  way  with  shame  and  humilia- 
tion. 

For  to  Mrs.  Hesslegiave  it  was  a  painful  and  dis- 
graceful thing  that  people  should  know  her  daughter 
had  to  work  for  her  living  at  all ;  in  her  young  days, 
she  was  wont  to  say  severely,  young  ladies  used  to 
paint  for  their  own  amusement,  not  for  filthy  lucre : 
and  whenever  she  said  it,  with  a  disapproving  toss 
of  the  dainty  coffee -coloured  Honiton  head-dress, 
Kathleen  had  somehow  an  unpleasant  feeling  in  the 
background  of  her  heart  that  it  was  really  very  wrong 
of  her  to  be  so  badly  off,  and  that  if  only  she  had  in- 
herited the  feelings  and  manners  of  a  perfect  lady, 
she  would  have  managed  to  be  bom  with  five  thou- 


3» 


AT  MARKET  t^ALUB 


Band  a  year,  and  nothing  to  do  for  it.  Though,  to 
be  sure,  if  she  hadn't  so  managed,  after  all,  it  might 
with  some  show  of  reason  be  urged  in  extenuation 
that  the  fault  lay  rather  at  the  door  of  that  impeccable 
Mrs.  Hesslegrave  herself,  and  •  the  late  lamented 
General  of  Artillery,  her  husband,  who  had  been 
jointly  responsible  for  bringing  Kathleen  into  the 
world  with  no  better  endowment  than  just  a  pair  of 
pretty  white  hands,  and  an  artistic  faculty  for  deftly 
employing  them  in  the  production  of  beautiful  and 
pleasing  images. 

On  this  particular  evening,  however,  Kathleen  was 
tired  with  packing ;  her  head  ached  slightly ;  and  she 
was  anxious  to  be  kept  as  undisturbed  as  possible. 
Therefore,  of  course,  her  brother  Beginald  had  chosen 
it  as  the  aptest  moment  to  drop  in  towards  the  dinner- 
hour  for  a  farewell  visit  to  his  mother  and  sister. 
Beginald  was  twenty,  with  a  faint  black  line  on  his 
upper  lip — which  he  called  a  moustache — and  he 
was  a  child  entirely  after  Mrs.  Hesslegrave's  own 
heart;  in  his  mother's  eyes,  indeed,  a  consummate 
gentleman.  To  be  sure,  the  poor  boy  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  be  engaged  in  an  office  in  the  City — a  most 
painful  position:  Mrs.  Hesslegrave's  narrow  means 
had  never  allowed  her  to  send  hiia  to  Sandhurst  or 
Woolwich  and  get  him  a  commission  in  the  army — 
but  that  the  fond  mother  regarded  as  poor  Beggie'a 
il!'luck;  and  Beggie  himself  endeavoured  to  make  up 
for  it  by  copying  to  the  best  of  his  ability  the  tone 
and  manner  of  military  circles,  as  far  as  was  com- 
patible with  the  strict  routine  of  a  stockbroker's 
office.  If  collars  and  cuffs  and  the  last  thing  out  in 
octagon  ties  constitute  the  real  criterion  of  the  gentle 
life  (as  is  the  naive  belief  of  so  large  a  fraction  of  the 


mt'" 


FRATERNAL  AMENITIES 


39 


City),  then  was  Eeginald  Hesslegrave  indeed  a  gentle- 
man. What  though  he  subsisted  in  great  part  on 
poor  Kathleen's  earnings,  and  pocketed  her  hard- 
won  cash  to  supplement  his  own  narrow  salary,  with 
scarcely  so  much  as  a  *  thank  you  * — one  doesn't  like 
to  seem  beholden  to  a  woman  in  these  matters,  you 
know — yet  was  the  cut  of  his  coats  a  marvel  to  Adam's 
Court,  and  the  pattern  of  his  sleeve-links  a  thing  to 
be  observed  by  the  stipendiary  youth  of  Threadneedle 
Street  and  Lothbury. 

Eeginald  flung  himself  down  in  the  big  easy-chair 
by  the  bow  window  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  drops 
in  for  a  moment  to  counsel,  advise,  assist,  and  over- 
look his  womenkind — in  short,  with  all  the  dignity 
of  the  head  of  the  family.  He  was  annoyed  that '  his 
people  *  were  leaving  town ;  leave  they  must,  sooner 
or  later,  of  course ;  if  they  didn't,  how  could  Kathleen 
ever  dispose  of  those  precious  •'aubs  of  hers? — for 
though  Eeginald  pocketed  poor  Kathleen's  sovereigns 
with  the  utmost  calm  of  a  great  spirit,  he  always 
affected  profoundly  to  despise  the  dubious  art  that 
produced  thorn.  Still,  the  actual  moment  of  his 
people's  going  was  always  a  disagreeable  one  to 
Eeginald  Hesslegrave.  As  long  as  mother  and  Kitty 
stopped  on  in  town,  he  had  somewhere  respectable 
to  spend  his  evenings,  if  he  wished  to;  somewhere 
presentable  to  which  he  could  bring  other  fellowi  at 
no  expense  to  himself;  and  that,  don't  you  knov7,  is 
always  a  consideration  I  As  soon  as  they  were  gone, 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  the  club;  and  at  the 
club,  that  sordid  place,  they  make  a  man  pay  himself 
for  whatever  he  consumes,  and  whatever  he  offers  in 
solid  or  liquid  hospitality  to  other  fellows.  So  no 
matter  how.  late  mother  and  Kitty  stayed  in  town,  it 


40 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


made  Beggie  cross,  all  the  same,  when  the  day  came 
for  their  departure. 

*How  badly  you  do  up  your  back-hair,  Kitty  1' 
Reggie  observed  with  a  sweet  smile  of  provocation, 
after  a  few  other  critical  remarks  upon  his  sister's. 
appearance.  *  You  put  no  style  into  it.  You  ought 
just  to  look  at  Mrs.  Algy  Bedburn's  hair !  There's 
art  if  you  lilc.  She  does  it  in  a  bun.  She  knows 
how  to  dress  it.    It's  a  model  for  a  duchess !' 

*  Mrs.  Algy  Bedburn  keeps  a  maid,  no  doubt,'  his 
sister  answered,  leaning  back  in  her  chair  a  little 
wearily,  for  she  was  worn  out  with  packing.  *So 
the  credit  of  her  bun  belongs,  of  course,  to  the  maid 
who  dresses  it.' 

'  She  keeps  a  maid,'  Beggie  went  on,  with  his  hands 
on  his  haunches  in  an  argumentative  attitude.  *  Why, 
certainly,  she  keeps  a  maid.  What  else  would  you 
expect?  Svery  lady  keeps  a  maid.  It's  a  simple 
necessity.  And  ycm  ought  to  keep  a  maid,  too.  No 
woman  can  be  dressed  as  a  lady  should  dress,  if 
she  doesn't  keep  a  maid.  The  thing's  impossible.' 
And  he  snapped  his  mouth  to  like  a  patent  rat- 
trap.  . 

'  Then  I  must  be  content  to  dress  otherwise  than  as 
a  lady  should,'  Kathleen  responded  quietly;  'for  I 
can't  afford  a  maid  —  and  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
Beggie,  I  really  don't  know  that  I  should  care  to  have 
one !' 

*  Can't  afford !'  Beggie  repeated  with  a  derisive 
accent  of  profound  scorn.  *  That's  what  you  always 
say.  I  hate  to  hear  you  say  it.  The  phrase  is  unlady- 
like. If  you  can't  afford  anything,  you  ought  to  be 
able  to  a^ord  it.  How  do  I  afford  things  ?  I  dress 
like  a  gentleman.    You  never  see  me  ill-tailored  or 


FRATERNAL  AMENITIES 


41 


ill-groomed,  or  doing  without  anything  a  gentleman 
ought  to  have.    How  do  I  afford  it  ?' 

Kathleen  had  it  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue  to  give 
back  the  plain  and  true  retort,  *Why,  by  making 
your  sister  earn  the  money  to  keep  you ;'  but  native 
kindliness  and  womanly  feeling  restrained  her  from 
saying  so.     So  she  only  replied  : 

*  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  my  dear ;  I  often  wonder: 
for  I  can't  afford  it,  and  I  earn  more  than  you  do.' 

Eeggie  winced  a  little  at  that.  It  was  mean  of 
Kitty  so  to  twit  him  with  his  poverty.  She  was 
always  flinging  his  want  of  ready-money  in  his  face — 
as  though  want  of  .Qoney  (when  you  spend  every 
penny  that  fate  allows  you — and  a  little  more  too) 
were  a  disgrace  to  any  gentleman !  But  he  continued 
none  the  less  in  the  same  lordly  strain : 

*  You  dress  ba  ^ly ;  that's  the  fact  of  it.  No  woman 
should  spend  lest  than  three  hundred  a  year  on  her 
own  wardrobe!  It  can't  be  done  for  one  shilling 
under  that.     Shf  ought  to  spend  it.' 

*  Not  if  she  hasn't  got  it,'  Kathleen  answered 
stoutly. 

*  Whether  she's  got  it  or  not,'  Eeggie  responded  at 
once,  with  profound  contempt  for  such  unladylike 
morality.  '  Look  at  Mrs.  Algy  Bedbum !  How  does 
she  do,  I'd  like  to  know?  Everybody's  well  aware 
Algy  hasn't  got  a  brass  farthing  to  bless  himself  with; 
yet  who  do  you  see  dressed  in  the  Park  like  his  wife  ? 
Such  bonnets !  Such  coats !  Such  a  bun !  There's 
a  model  for  you  !' 

*But  Mrs.  Algy  Bedbum  will  some  day  be  Lady 
Axminster,'  Kathleen  answered  with  a  sigh,  not  per- 
ceiving herself  that  that  vague  contingency  had  really 
nothing  at  all  to  do  with  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  the 


m 


■i 


4» 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


question.      *And  I  will  not.'      (Which  was  also  to 
some  extent  an  unwarrantable  assumpbion.) 

Beggie  f  .^shed  his  cuffs,  and  regarded  them  with 
just  pride. 

'That's  no  matter,'  he  answeted  curtly.  *  Every 
lady  is  a  lady,  and  should  dress  like  a  lady,  no  matter 
what's  her  income.  And  she  can't  do  that  under, 
three  hundred  a  year.    You  take  my  word  for  it.' 

Kathleen  was  too  tired  to  keep  up  the  dispute.  So 
she  answered  nothing. 

But  Beggie  had  come  round  to  his  sister's  that 
night  in  the  familiar  masculine  teasing  humour.  He 
wasn't  going  to  be  balked  of  his  sport  so  easily.  'Twas 
as  good  as  ratting,  at  half  the  cost,  and  almost  equal 
to  badger-drawing.     So  he  went  on  after  a  minute : 

'A  man  doesn't  need  so  much.  His  wants  are 
simpler.  I  think  I  can  dress  like  a  gentleman  myself 
—on  two  hundred  and  fifty.* 

*  As  your  salary's  eighty,*  Kathleen  put  in  resignedly, 
with  one  hand  on  her  aching  head,  'I  don't  quite 
know  myself  where  the  remainder's  to  come  from.* 

Beggie  parried  the  question. 

*  Oh,  I'm  careful,'  he  went  on — *  very  careful,  you 
know,  Kitty.  I  make  it  a  rule  never  to  waste  my 
money.  I  buy  judiciously.  Look  at  linen,  for  example* 
Linen's  a  very  important  item.  I  require  a  fresh 
shirt,  of  course,  every  morning.  Even  you  will  ad- 
mit *  (he  spoke  with  acerbity,  as  though  Kathleen  were 
a  sort  of  acknowledged  social  Pariah) — *  even  you  will 
admit  that  a  supply  of  clean  linen  ts  a  necessary  ad- 
junct to  a  gentleman's  appearance.  Well,  how  do  you 
think,  now,  I  manage  about  my  cuffs  ?  I'll  tell  you 
what  I  do  about  them.  There  are  fellows  at  our  place, 
if  you'll  believe  it,  who  wear  movable  cuffs  —  cuffs, 


:l 


FRATERNAL  AMENITIES 


43 


don*t  you  know,  that  come  off  and  on  the  same  as  a 
collar  .does :  nastv  separate  shirt  cuffs.  I  don't  call 
such  thmgs  gentlemanly.  The  fellows  that  wear  them 
take  them  off  when  they  come  to  the  office,  and  slip 
them  on  again  over  their  hands  when  they  have  to 
run  across  with  a  client  to  the  House— that's  what  we 
call  the  Stock  Exchange — or  when  they  go  out  for 
luncheon.  Well,  I  don't  like  such  ways  myself.  I 
hate  and  detest  all  shams  and  subterfuges.  I  wouldn't 
wear  a  cuff  unless  it  was  part  and  parcel  of  my  shirt. 
So  I've  invented  a  dodge  to  keep  them  clean  from 
morning  till  evening.  As  soon  as  I  go  into  the  office, 
I  just  cut  a  piece  of  white  foolscap  the  exact  size  of 
my  cuffs ;  I  double  it  back,  so,  over  the  edge  of  the 
sleeve ;  I  pass  it  under  again,  this  way.  Then,  while 
I  stop  in  the  office,  I  keep  the  cover  on ;  and  it  looks 
pretty  much  the  same  as  the  linen.  That  prevents 
blacks  and  smuts  from  settling  on  the  cuff,  and  keeps 
the  wear  and  tear  of  writing  and  so  forth  from  hurt- 
ing the  material.  But  when  I  go  out,  I  just  slip  the 
paper  off,  so ! — and  there  I  am,  you  see,  with  spotless 
linen,  like  a  gentleman!'  And  he  demonstrated 
triumphantly. 

*  A  most  ingenious  dodge !'  Kathleen  answered  with 
languid  interest. 

*Yes,  it's  careful  of  me,'  Reggie  went  on;  *I'm 
naturally  careful.  And  by  such  strict  bits  of  economy 
I  expect  in  the  end — to  keep  down  my  expenditure  on 
dress  to  two  hundred  and  fifty.' 

Kathleen  smiled  very  faintly. 

*  You  don't  think  a  fellow  can  do  it  on  less,  do  you  ?' 
Eeggie  continued  once  more  in  an  argumentative 
spirit. 

'  Tea,  I  do,'  Kathleen  replied.    '  X  certainly  thinli; 


if 


«Hs«^ 


"■^^ 


44 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


80.  And  if  he's  a  man,  and  can't  afford  to  spend  so 
much,  I  think  he  should  be  ashamed  of  himself  for 
talking  such  nonsense.' 

*Well,  but  look  here,  you  know,*  Kegjie  began, 

*  what's  a  man  to  do  ?  You  just  think  of  it  this  way ! 
First,  he  must  have  a  dress  suit  once  a  year,  of  course ; 
you'll  admit  that's  a  necessity.  Glo/es  and  white 
ties— those  he  needs  for  evening.  Then  a  frock  coat 
and  waistcoat,  with  trousers  to  match ;  and  a  black 
cutaway  lot  for  afternoon  tea ;  and  two  suits  of  dittos 
for  country  wear ;  and  a  tweed  with  knickerbockers 
for  shooting  and  so  forth ;  and  a  tennis  coat,  and 
boating  flannels,  and * 

'  Oh,  don't,  Eeggie !'  his  sister  cried,  shrinking 
away  and  clapping  her  hands  to  her  aching  head. 

*  You  comb  my  brain  1  I'm  too  tired  to  argue  with 
you!' 

*  That's  just  it,'  Eeggie  continued,  delighted.  *You 
live  in  wretched  lodgings,  with  no  proper  food — ^your 
cook's  atrocious — and  you  work  till  you  drop  at  your 
beastly  painting ;  and  you  tire  yourself  out  with  pack- 
ing your  own  boxes,  instead  of  keeping  a  maid,  who'd 
do  it  all  like  a  shot  for  you ;  and  what's  the  conse- 
quence? Why,  you're  unfit  for  society!  When  a 
fellow  comes  round  to  pay  you  a  visit  after  a  hard  day's 
work,  and  expects  a  little  relaxation  and  stimulating 
talk  with  the  ladies  of  his  family,  he  finds  you  worn 
out — a  mere  boiled  rag ;  while  as  to  music,  or  conver- 
sation, or  some  agreeable  chat — oh,  dear  me,  no  !  not 
the  ghost  of  an  idea  of  it !' 

Kathleen's  patience  was  exhausted. 

*  My  dear  boy,*  she  said  half  angrily,  *  I  have  to 
work  to  keep  myself  alive,  and  you,  too,  into  the 
bar^aiii.    And  if  you  expect  me  to  supply  you  witl^ 


A. 


FRATERNAL  AMENITIES 


45 


two  hundred  a  year  to  spend  upon  your  wardrobe, 
why,  you  must  at  least  consent  to  give  up  the  pleasure 
of  music  in  the  evenings.' 

What  Reginald  might  have  answered  to  this  un- 
expected attack  remains  an  unknown  fact  in  the 
history  of  the  universe ;  for  just  at  that  minute  the 
neat-capped  little  waiting-maid  of  the  Kensington 
lodgings  opened  the  door  with  a  flourish  and  an- 
nounced, *  Mr.  Mortimer !' 

The  young  American  entered  with  undisguised 
alacrity,  and  gazed  delighted  around  the  room. 

*  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  is  out,  I  hear,*  he  began  with 
meaning,  as  he  took  Kathleen's  hand.  Then  he 
started  a  little  in  surprise  as  Beginald  rose  from  the 
chair  where  he  had  been  sitting,  unseen.  *  But  your 
brother's  here,'  he  added  in  a  disappointed  after- 
thought, whose  distinct  tone  of  regret  must  needs 
have  struck  anybody  less  self-centred  and  self- 
satisfied  than  the  stockbroker's  assistant. 

*Yes,  I  dropped  round  to  say  good-bye  to  my 
people  to-night,'  Reggie  answered  with  a  drawl, 
caressing  that  budding  black  line  on  his  upper  lip 
with  all  a  hobbledehoy's  afifection.  *  They're  off  on 
a  round  of  visits  in  the  country  just  now.  Hard 
lines  on  me !  I  shall  be  left  all  alone  by  myself  in 
London !' 

Rufus  Mortimer  surveyed  him  from  head  to  foot 
with  a  comprehensive  glance,  which  seemed  to  say, 
about  as  clear  as  looks  could  say  it,  that  whatever  he 
did  he  wouldn't  be  much  missed  anywhere — especially 
just  at  that  moment ;  but  being  a  polite  young  man, 
after  his  own  lights,  he  failed  to  put  his  idea  into 
words  for  the  present.  He  merely  sat  down  on  the 
divan,  not  far  from  Kathleen,  {^nd  began  to  talk  with 


.*■  ••Is 


46 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


her  about  art  (a  subject  which  invariably  bored  Mr. 
Reginald),  taking  not  the  slightest  notice  in  any  way 
all  the  while  of  her  brother's  presence.  Before  he 
knew  it  almost,  they  were  away  in  Florence :  deep  in 
their  Raphaels  and  Andrea  del  Sartos,  and  so  forth. 
Beggie  stood  it  for  ten  minutes  or  so;  then  he  rose 
and  yawned.  Fra  Filippo  Lippi  had  almost  choked  him 
off :  but  Facchiarotto  finished  him.  He  wasn't  going  to 
stop  and  hear  any  more  of  this  rot.  He  longed  for 
something  sensible.  He'd  go  out  and  see  what  the  even- 
ing papers  said  of  the  favourite  for  the  Two  Thousand. 

But  Kathleen  called  him  back  anxiously.  '  Where 
are  you  going  to,  Beggie  ?'  she  asked,  with  unexpected 
4*ffection.  It  wasn't  often  she  seemed  so  eager  for  the 
pleasure  of  his  society. 

*0h,  just  strolling  out  for  a  bit,'  her  brother 
answered  evasively,  'till  the  Mums  comes  back.  I 
thought  you  and  Mortimer  seemed  to  be  hitting  it  off 
on  high  art  very  well  together.' 

*  Don't  go  just  yet,'  his  sister  put  in,  with  a  quick 
look  at  him.  '  I'm  sure  mother  'd  be  vexed  if  you 
went  away  without  seeing  her.' 

*  I  meant  to  come  back  soon,*  Beggie  responded  with 
a  sigh,  his  right  hand  still  fingering  the  knob  of  the 
door.     *  I  expect  you  won't  miss  me.' 

*  Oh,  don't  let  him  stay  on  my  account,'  Mortimer 
echoed  with  polite  anxiety,  giving  Kathleen  a  pleading 
look  half  aside  in  his  turn.  It  was  clear  from  that 
look  he  wanted  a  tete-a-tete  with  her. 

But  Kathleen  was  inexorable.  *  I'd  rather  you 
stopped,  Beggie,'  she  said  in  such  a  decided  voice  that 
even  Beggie  understood,  and  made  up  his  mind  to 
give  way  to  her.  *  Mother  '11  be  here  before  long,  ancl 
I  want  you  to  wait  foi*  hey,' 


FRA  TERN  A  L  A  MENITIES 


47 


Reggie  sat  down  with  a  bump. 

'  Oh,  as  you  will,'  he  answered,  dropping  back  into 
his  easy-chair.  *  I'm  sure  /  don't  mind.  It's  all  the 
same  to  me.  Only,  I  thought  you  two  could  run  this 
Fra  Angelico  business  just  about  as  well  without  me, 
don't  you  know,  as  with  me.  I  don't  pretend  to 
excite  myself  over  Fra  Angelico,  any  way.' 

So  for  the  next  half-hour  poor  Bufus  Mortimer  sat 
on,  still  discussing  art — which  is  a  capital  subject,  no 
doubt,  when  you  want  to  talk  of  it,  but  which  palls  a 
little,  it  must  be  confessed,  if  it  intervenes  inconti- 
nently at  the  exact  moment  of  time  when  you're 
waiting  to  ask  the  young  woman  of  your  choice  whetjier 
or  not  she'll  have  you.  Bufus  Mortimer,  for  his  part, 
was  rather  inclined,  as  things  stood,  to  put  his  money 
on  the  not.  For  if  that  delightful  English  girl  had 
really  wanted  him,  surely  she  would  have  managed  to 
get  rid,  by  hook  or  by  crook,  of  her  superfluous 
brother.  Instead  of  which,  she  had  positively  en- 
couraged him  in  remaining.  Which  things  being  so, 
Bufus  Mortimer  was  more  than  half  disposed  to  think 
she  desired  to  avoid  having  to  give  him  an  answer. 
For  that  he  was  really  and  truly  sorry ;  for  he  had 
always  liked  her  very  much  ;  and  now  that  she  showed 
some  disposition  to  refuse  him,  why,  he  came  exceed- 
ingly near  to  loving  her.  Such  is  the  way  of  man  ! 
The  fact  that  Kathleen  Hesslegrave  seemed  to  hold 
him  at  arm's-length  made  Bufus  Mortimer  resolve  in 
his  own  mind  at  all  hazards  to  marry  her. 

After  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  had  returned  for  a  few 
minutes,  somewhat  later,  the  young  man  rose  to  go. 
It  was  no  use  waiting  now ;  Kathleen  was  fenced  in, 
as  it  were,  by  a  double  thorn  hedge  of  mother  and 
l^rothw,    Yet  be  paused  by  the  open  door,  and  held 


48 


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Kathleen's  hanu  for  a  second  in  his  own  as  he  said 
good-bye. 

'  Then  we  shall  meet  in  Venice,*  he  said  at  last,  re- 
grbtfully.     *  In  Venice ;  in  October.' 

Kathleen  looked  at  him  with  some  concern. 

'  But  you  would  do  better  to  be  in  Paris,'  she  said 
low.  '  It's  so  much  more  important  for  your  art,,  you 
know  !*    And  she  trembled  slightly. 

'  No,'  the  American  answered,  brightening  up  at 
that  little  spark  of  seeming  interest  in  his  private  pur- 
suits. *  It  shall  be  Venice,  Miss  Hesslegrave.  I  make 
it  Venice.'  Then  he  paused  for  a  second,  as  if  afraid 
of  going  too  far.  *  There  are  things,'  he  said,  gazing 
wistfully  at  her  with  his  big  brown  eyes,  *  much  more 
important  in  one's  life  than  art '  So  Venice  it  shall 
be  !    Let  me  meet  you  in  Venice  !* 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone,  Beggie  turned  to  her  with 
a  snigf^le. 

'  That  chap's  awfully  gone  on  you,  Kitty,'  he  said, 
much  tmused.  '  He's  awfully  gone  on  you.  For  my 
part,  I  never  can  understand  any  fellow  being  gone  on 
such  a  girl  as  you ;  Ijut  he's  awfully  gone  on  you. 
Why  wouldn't  you  let  me  go  out?  Didn't  you  see 
je  was  just  dying  to  have  ten  minutes  alone  with 
you  ?' 

'  Yes,  I  did  see,'  Kathleen  answered  ;  *  and  that  was 
exactly  why  I  didn't  want  you  to  go  out  that  moment. 
I  (L'hi't  wish  to  be  left  alone  with  him.' 

liejigie  opened  his  eyes  wide. 

*  lie's  a  jolly  good  match,'  he  continued.  '  And  a 
decent  enough  sort  of  fellow  too — though  he  knows 
nothing  of  horses.  I'm  sure  I  don't  see  why  you 
should  make  such  bones  about  accepting  him !' 

*  I  quite  agree  with  Beggie,'  put  in  Mrs.  H«sslegrave, 


A  CHANCE  ENCOUNTER 


49 


who  had  entered.  'He's  an  excellent  young  man. 
I'm  surprised  at  what  you  say  of  him.' 

Kathleen  rose  from  her  seat  like  one  who  doesn't 
care  to  continue  a  discussion. 

*  He's  a  very  good  fellow,'  she  said,  with  one  hand 
on  the  door :  '  and  I  like  him  immensely.  So  much 
that— I  didn't  care  to  be  left  alone  with  him  this 
evening.' 

And  with  that  enigmatical  remark  she  slipped  away 
from  the  room  and  ran  quietly  upstairs  to  complete 
her  packing. 


CHAPTER  V. 


A  CHANCE    ENCOUNTER. 

'October  in  Venice  is  always  charming,'  Rufus  Morti- 
mer remarked,  as  he  leaned  back  luxuriously  on  the 
padded  seat  of  his  own  private  gondola,  the  Criatoforu 
Colombo.  *  The  summer's  too  hot  here,  and  the 
winter's  too  chilly ;  Init  October  and  April  are  perfect 
poems.  I'm  so  glad  I  made  up  my  mind  to  come, 
after  all.  I  never  saw  Venice  before  to  such  absolute 
advantage.' 

Mrs.  Hesslegrave  gathered  her  light  wrap  round  her 
ample  shoulders,  and  settled  herself  down  on  the  best 
back  bench  with  an  air  of  unalloyed  and  complete 
enjoyment.  She  was  thoroughly  in  her  element. 
'There's  nothing  more  delightful  than  a  gondola  to 
travel  in,'  she  said  with  placid  contentment  in  her  full 
round  face,  looking  up  at  the  two  sturdy  gondoliers  in 
gay  costumes,  who  handled  the  paddles  at  prow  and 
stern  with  true  Venetian  mastery  of  the  art  and  craft 
of  the  lagoons.    She  would  have  said,  if  she  had  been 


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'•  "''"^1,  'N'  t^ino;  more  delightful  than  a  private 
!  'U\h:  luat  last  touch  indeed  that  made 
up  to  Airs.  ii(!ssl(  f^rave  half  the  pleasure  of  the  situa- 
tion. It  flalU red  her  vanity,  her  sense  of  superiority 
to  the  vulgar  herd.  She  hated  to  hire  a  mere  ordinary 
huek-boat  at  the  steps  by  t)ie  Molo  ;  to  entrust  herself 
to  the  htnids  of  a  possihl^  extortionate  and  certainly 
i'l-dressed  boatman,  and  to  be  lost  in  the  common 
ruck  of  plain  tourist  humanity.  But  what  her  soul 
jusit  loved  was  to  glide  like  this  along  the  Grand  Canal 
in  a  private  craft,  with  two  gentlemen's  servants  in 
f;ill  Venetian  costume  — red  sash  and  black  jerkin — by 
the  iron  bow ;  to  know  herself  the  admired  of  all 
beholders,  ^^ho  really  couldn't  tell  at  a  casual  glance 
whether  she  was  or  was  not  the  proprietor  in  person 
of  the  whole  turn-out,  the  eminently  respectable  family 
equipage.  I  don't  know  why,  but  we  must  all  admit 
there  is  certainly  a  sense  of  extreme  luxury  and  aristo- 
cratic exclusiveness  about  a  private  gondola,  as  about 
the  family  state -barge  of  the  seventeenth  -  century 
nobleman,  which  is  wholly  wanting  to  even  the  most 
costly  of  modern  carriages  and  beliveried  footmen .  Mrs. 
Hesslegrave  felt  as  much — and  was  happy  accordingly ; 
for  nothing  gave  her  mind  such  pure  enjoyment  as 
the  feeling,  quite  hateful  to  not  a  few  among  us,  that 
she  was  enjoying  something  which  all  the  world  could 
not  equally  enjoy,  and  was  giving  rise  to  passing 
qualms  of  envy,  hatred,  malice,  and  all  uncharitable- 
ness  in  the  ill-balanced  minds  of  casual  spectators. 

So  she  glided  in  placid  enjoyment  down  the  Grand 
Canal,  drinking  it  all  in  as  sh*  went  with  receptive 
eyes,  and  noting,  by  the  mute  evidence  ^  blinds  and 
shutters,  which  families  were  now  back  in  their  stately 
palazzos  from  their  summer  holidays,  and  which  were 


A  CtiAMC^  ^nCOVnTSR 


Ml  drinking  '  the   gross  mud-honey  of    town '  in 
London  or  Paris,  Berlin  or  Vienna. 

'There's  the  Contarini-Fasan,'  Kathleen  cried  in 
delight  u  they  passed  in  front  of  one  delicious  little 
palace  with  mouldering  pointed  Venetian  arches  of  the 
fourteenth  century.  *  How  lovely  it  always  looks  ! 
That  exquisite  moulding  !  That  rich  work  round  the 
windows !  And  those  romantic  balconies ! — I  wonder, 
Mr.  Mortimer,  you  didn't  try  to  rent  some  old  place 
like  that,  instead  of  the  one  you've  got.  It's  so  much 
more  picturesque,  you  know  !* 

*  Do  you  think  so  ?'  the  young  American  answered, 
looking  quite  pleased  for  a  second  that  she  should 
make  the  suggestion.  '  Well,  you  see,  I  didn't  know 
you'd  prefer  a  medieval  one.  And  the  Benaissance 
are  certainly  more  convenient  to  live  in.* 

*  Why  my  dear  child,'  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  interposed, 
with  quite  a  shoe,  d  expression,  *  what  on  earth  could 
be  more  lovely  than  Mr.  Mortimer's  palazzo?  It's 
much  the  largest  and  most  important-looking  house 
(except,  of  course,  the  Pi-efecture  and  the  foreign 
ambassadors')  on  the  Grand  Canal.  I  don't  see,  my- 
self, how  in  the  world  you  can  find  fault  with  it.' 

*  Miss  Hesslegrave' 8  quite  right,'  the  American 
answered  quickly,  with  grave  politeness,  darting  a 
glance  at  Kathleen.  '  Of  course,  in  point  of  beauty, 
there  can  be  nr>  comparinon  between  a  palazzo  like 
mine,  all  plain  round  windows  or  Benaissance  doors, 
and  sueh  crystaillized  dreams.in  lace-  like  stone  as  the 
Ca  d'Oro  or  the  Palazzo  Pisani.  One  capital  of  their 
columns  is  worth  my  whole  courtyard.  It's  for  those 
alone  we  «ome  to  live  in  Venice.  But  then,  they're 
not  always  in  the  market,  don't  you  see ;  and  besides, 
in  many  ways  they're  less  convenient  to  live  in.    One 


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must  think  of  that  sometimes.  The  picturesque  is  all 
very  well  as  an  object  of  abstract  contemplation  in 
life ;  but  when  it  comes  to  daily  needs,  we  somehow 
seem  to  prefer  the  sanitary  and  the  comfortable.' 

'  Oh,  and  what  an  exquisite  glimpse  up  the  side- 
canal  there  !*  Kathleen  exclaimed  once  more,  with  a 
lingering  accent  on  the  words,  as  they  passed  just  in 
front  of  an  old  red  tower  with  bells  hung  in  its  arch- 
ways. *  That's  the  campanile  of  San  Vitale,  that 
tower.  I  always  love  it :  it's  a  beautiful  bit.  These 
quaint  out-of-the-way  places,  that  nobody  else  ever 
paints,  I  love  the  best  of  all  in  Venice.  They're  so 
much  more  beautiful  and  picturesque,  after  all,  than 
the  common  things  all  the  world  admires,  and  one  sees 
everywhere — the  Eialto,  and  the  Bridge  of  Sighs,  and 
Santa  Maria  della  Salute.' 

*  The  Macdougalls  are  back,  I  see,'  Mrs.  Hesslegrave 
interposed  with  a  glance  at  a  first-floor.  *  That's  their 
house,  Mr.  Mortimer.  They're  charming  people,  and 
immensely  wealthy.  That  big  red  place  there,  just 
round  by  the  Layards'.' 

*And  what  lovely  old  windows  it  hasl'  Kathleen 
exclaimed,  glancing  up.  *  Those  deep-recessed  quatre- 
foilsl  How  exquisite  they  look,  with  the  canary- 
creeper  climbing  up  the  great  stone  mullions  to  the 
tracery  of  the  arches  !  Don't  you  love  the  blue  posts 
they  moor  their  boats  to  ?' 

*  I  wonder  if  they've  begun  their  Friday  afternoons 
yet,'  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  went  on,  following  out  the 
track  of  her  own  reflections.  *  We  must  look  and  see, 
Kathleen,  when  we  go  back  to  our  lodgings.* 

*  There  was  a  whole  heap  of  cards,  mother,'  Kathleen 
replied,  watching  the  curl  of  the  water  from  the 
paddle's  edge.    '  I  didn't  much  look  at  them ;  but  I 


m 


A  CHANCE  ENCOUNTER 


53 


stuck  them  all  in  the  yellow  Cantagalli  pot  on  the 
table  by  the  landing.  For  my  part,  I  just  hate  these 
banal  gaieties  in  Venice.  They  interfere  so  much  with 
one's  time  and  one's  painting.' 

*  Ah,  yes,  poor  Kathleen !'  Mrs.  Hesalegrave  mur- 
mured pathetically.  *  It's  so  hard  on  her,  Mr. 
Mortimer.  I'm  sure  you  pity  her.  She  has  to  work 
like  a  slave  !  She  grudges  all  the  time  she  gives  up 
every  week  to  the  natural  sports  and  tastes  of  her  age 
and  her  position  in  society.  It's  so  different  with  you, 
of  course.  You  have  only  to  paint  just  when  and 
where  you  like.  Yours  is  art  for  art's  sake.  Poor 
Kathleen  feels  compelled  to  stick  at  it  for  a  liveli- 
hood.* 

*  But  I  like  it,  mother,'  Kathleen  crieil,  colouring 
up  to  her  very  ears.  *I  love  my  art.  I'd  much 
rather  be  out  painting  on  one  of  these  lovely,  solitary 
side-canals  than  cooped  up  in  a  drawing-room  talking 
silly  small-talk  to  a  whole  lot  of  stupid  people  I  don't 
care  a  pin  about.* 

Mrs.  Hesslegrave  sighed,  and  shook  her  head 
faintly,  with  a  speaking  glance  beneath  her  eyelids 
at  Mortimer.  (She  was  under  the  impression  that 
she  was  '  drawing  him  on  *  by  the  pathetic  channel.) 

*  It's  so  sweet  of  you  to'say  so,  dear,'  she  murmured 
half  aside.  ■  You  want  to  reassure  me.  That's  charm- 
ing and  sweet  of  you.  And  I  know  you  like  it.  In 
your  way  you  like  it.  It's  a  dispensation,  of  course. 
Thingd  are  always  so  ordered.  What's  that  lovely 
te\t  about  "  tempering  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb  *'  ? 
I"ja  sure  it  applies  to  you.  "  I  invariably  think  so  in 
church  when  I  hear  it.*  For  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  was 
not  the  first  to  attribute  to  Holy  Scripture  that 
sentimental    and    eminently  untrustworthy    saying, 


54 


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which  belongs  by  right  to  the  author  of  'Tristram 
Shandy.' 

Just  at  that  moment,  however,  as  they  turned  with 
a  dexterous  twirl  under  a  low  bridge  up  the  silent  little 
water-way  that  leads  through  quaint  lanes  to  the 
church  of  the  Frari,  they  were  startled  by  a  sudden 
voice  crying  out  from  close  by  in  clear  English  tones : 
*  Hullo,  Mortimer  !  There  you  are !  So  you're  back 
again  in  Venice!' 

The  speaker  was  not  in  a  gondola,  whether  private 
or  otherwise ;  and  his  costume  was  so  unaffectedly  and 
frankly  sailor-like,  as  of  the  common  mariner,  that 
Mrs.  Ilesslegrave  was  at  first  sight  inclined  to  resent 
his  speaking  in  so  familiar  a  tone  of  voice  to  the 
occupants  of  a  distinguished  and  trimly-kept  craft  like 
the  Cristoforo  Colomho.  But  his  accent  was  a  gentle- 
man's ;  and  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  reflected,  just  in  time 
to  prevent  her  from  too  overtly  displaying  her  hostile 
feelings,  that  nowadays  young  men  of  the  very  best 
families  so  often  dress  just  like  common  sailors  when 
they  re  out  on  a  jvachting  cruise.  No  doubt  this 
eccentric  person  in  the  jersey  and  cap  who  called  out 
so  easily  to  their  host  as  *  Mortimer,'  must  be  one  of 
these ;  othervdse,  he  would  surely  have  known  his 
place  better  than  to  shout 'aloud  in  that*  unseemly 
hail-fellow-well-met  way  to  the  occupants  of  a  hand- 
some private  gondola. 

But  Rufus  Mortimer  looked  up  at  him  with  a  quick 
glance  of  recognition.  *  Hullo,  Willoughby,'  hfi  cried, 
waving  his  hand  to  the  gondoliers  to  draw  near  the 
bank.  *  So  you're  back  again,  too !  This  is  better 
than  I  expected.  I  was  more  than  half  afraid  we 
shouldn't  see  you  at  all  at  the  old  perch  this  winter.' 

And  oven  as  Mrs.  Hesslegr&ve  looked  up  and  won- 


A  ChAMC^  ENCoVNT£k 


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^ered — oh,  miracle  of  Fate  ! — Kathleen  rose  from  her 
seat  and  leant  over  the  edge  of  the  gondola  with  one 
hand  outstretched  in  quite  kindly  recognition  towards 
the  sailor-looking  stranger. 

'  Why,  it's  you,  Mr.  Willoughby,'  she  cried  with 
clear  welcome  in  her  voice.  *  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you 
in  Venice !' 

Arnold  Willoughby  held  out  his  hand  in  return  with 
a  slight  tremor  of  pleased  surprise  at  this  unwonted 
reception. 

'Then  you  haven't  forgotten  me?'  he  exclaimed 
with  unaffected  pleasure.  '  I  didn't  think,  Miss  Hessle- 
grave,  you'd  be  likely  to  remember  me.' 

Kathleen  turned  towards  her  mother,  whose  eyes 
were  now  fixed  upon  her  in  the  mutely  interrogative 
fashion  of  a  prudent  mamma  when  her  daughter 
recognises  an  uncertified  stranger. 

*  This  is  the  gentleman  I  told  you  about,  dear,'  she 
said  simply,  presenting  him.  *  The  gentleman  who  was 
so  good  to  me  that  Taking-away  Day  at  the  Academy 
this  spring.    Don't  you  remember,  I  mentioned  him  ?' 

Mrs.  Hesslegrave  froze  visibly.  This  was  really  too 
much.  She  drew  herself  up  as  stiff  and  straight  as 
one  can  easily  manage  in  a  wobbling  gondola.  '  I 
have  some  dim  recollection,'  she  said  with  slow 
accents  in  her  chilliest  tone,  *  that  you  spoke  to  me  of 
some  gentleman  you  didn't  know  who  was  kind  enough 
to  help  you  in  carrying  back  your  picture.  I— I'm 
de-lighted  to  meet  him.'  But  the  tone  in  which  Mrs. 
Hesslegrave  said  that  word  'de-lighted*  belied  its 
significance. 

*  Step  into  the  gondola,  Willoughby,*  the  young 
American  suggested  with  the  easy  friendliness  of  his 
countrymen.     *  Are  you  going  anywhere  in  particular  ? 


t     --ai 


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56 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


— No  ?  Just  lounging  about  reconnoitring  the  ground 
for  the  winter's  campaign  ?  Then  you'd  better  jump 
in  and  let's  hear  what  you've  been  up  to.' 

Arnold  Willoughby,  nothing  loath,  descended  lightly 
into  the  gondola.  As  he  entered  Mrs.  Hesslegrave 
drew  her  gown  just  a  little  on  one  side  instinctively. 
She  had  a  sort  of  feeling  in  her  soul  that  this  maritime- 
looking  young  man  didn't  move  in  exactly  the  same 
exalted  sphere  as  that  to  which  she  and  hers  had 
always  been  accustomed.  He  hadn't  at  all  the  air  of 
a  cavalry  officer;  and  to  Mrs.  Hesslegi'ave's  mind 
your  cavalry  officer  was  the  measure  of  all  things. 
So  she  shrank  from  him  unobtrusively.  But  Kathleen 
noticed  the  shrinking,  and  being  half  afraid  the  nice 
sailor-like  painter  might  have  noticed  it  too,  she  was 
even  more  polite  to  him  than  she  might  otherwise 
have  been  in  consequence  of  her  mother's  unspoken 
slight. 

Willoughby  took  a  place  in  the  stern,  on  the  com- 
fortable stuffed  seat  between  Mortimer  and  Kathleen. 
His  manners  at  least,  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  observed  with 
comparative  pleasure,  were  those  of  a  gentleman ; 
though  his  tailor's  bill  would  certainly  not  have  suited 
her  son  Beginald's  enlightened  views  on  that  im- 
portant subject. 

*  Well,  tell  us  all  about  it/  Mortimer  began  at  once, 
with  the  utmost  cordiality.  *  You're  here,  we  all  see. 
How  have  you  managed  to  come  here  ?  It  was  only 
yesterday  I  was  telling  Miss  Hesslegrave  at  the  station 
how  you  weren't  sure  whether  things  would  turn  out 
80  as  to  enable  you  to  return;  and  she  said  she  so 
much  hoped  you'd  manage  to  come  back  again.' 

*  We  should  be  painting  so  near  one  another  this 
year,  no  doubt/  Kathleen  said  with  a  pleasant  smile, 


A  tlXANCE  £^COUNT£R 


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*  we'd  be  able  to  see  something  of  one  another's  work 
and  one  another's  society.* 

Arnold  Willoughby's  face  flushed  with  genuine  and 
unexpected  pleasure.  Could  it  be  really  the  fact  that 
this  pretty  and  pleasant-mannered  artist  girl  was 
genuinely  glad  he  had  come  back  to  Venice  ?  And  he 
a  poor  painter  with  only  his  art  to  bless  himself  with  ? 
To  Arnold  Willoughby,  after  his  rude  awakening  to 
fuller  experience  of  the  ways  and  habits  of  men  and 
women,  such  disinterested  interest  seemed  well-nigh 
incredible.  He  glanced  at  her  timidly,  yet  with  a  face 
full  of  pleasure. 

*  That  was  very,  very  kind  of  you/  he  answered, 
rather  low,  for  kindness  always  overcame  him.  Then 
he  turned  to  the  American.  *  Well,  it  was  like  this, 
you  see,  Mortimer,'  he  said ;  *  I  sold  my  picture.* 

*  Not  the  Chioggia  Fisher-boats  ?'  Kathleen  cried, 
quite  interested. 

*  Yes,  the  same  you  saw  that  day  I  met  you  at  the 
Academy,*  Arnold  answered,  with  secret  delight  that 
the  pretty  girl  should  have  remembered  the  name  and 
subject  of  his  maiden  effort. 

'I  thought  you'd  sell  it,*  Kathleen  replied,  really 
radiant.  *I  am  so  glad  you  did.  Mr.  Mortimer  told 
me  your  return  to  Venice  and  your  future  in  art  very 
largely  depended  upon  your  chance  of  selling  it.* 

'Kathleen,  my  dear,*  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  interposed 
in  her  chilliest  voice,  *do  take  care  what  you  do. 
Don't  you  see  you're  lettmg  your  shawl  hang  over  into 
the  water  ?' 

Kathleen  lifted  it  up  hurriedly,  and  went  on  with 
her  conversation,  unheeding  her  mother's  hint,  which 
indeed  fell  flat  upon  her. 

*  I  knew  you'd  sell  it,'  she  continued  with  girlish 


58 


At  UAkKtt  VAIV& 


enthu8ii\*m.  '  It  was  so  good.  I  liked  it  immensely. 
Such  rich  colour  on  the  sails;  and  such  delicate 
imagination !' 

'But  it  rather  lacked  technique,'  the  American 
interposed,  just  a  trifle  chillily. 

*  Oh,  technique  anybody  can  get  howadays,'  Kathleen 
answered  with  warmth — *  if  he  goes  to  <he  right  place 
for  it.  It's  a  matter  of  paying.  Wha  he  can't  buy 
or  be  taught  is  imagination — fancy — keen  sense  of 
form — poetical  colour-perception.' 

'  And  how  much  did  they  give  you  for  it  ?'  the 
American  asked,  point-blank,  with  his  country's 
directness.  (An  Englishman  would  have  said,  *I 
hope  the  terms  were  satisfactory.') 

Willoughby  parried  the  question.  ■      • 

*  Not  much,'  he  answered  discreetly.  *  But  enough 
for  my  needs.  I  felt  at  least  my  time  had  not  been 
wasted.  It's  enabled  me  to  come  back  this  autumn  to 
Venice,  which  on  many  grounds  I  greatly  desired  to 
do;  and  it  will  even  allow  me  to  get  a  little  more 
instruction  in  that  technique  of  art  which  you  rightly 
say  is  the  weak  point  of  my  position.  So,  of  course* 
on  the  whole,  I'm  more  than  satisfied.' 

'  And  what  have  you  been  doing  all  'summer  ?' 
Mortimer  continued,  with  a  lazy  wave  to  the  gondolier, 
leaning  back  at  his  ease  on  his  padded  cushions. 

Arnold  Willoughby  still  retained  too  much  of  the 
innate  self-confidence  of  the  born  aristocrat  to  think  it 
necessary  for  him  to  conceal  anything  that  seemed  to 
himself  sufficiently  good  for  Mm  to  do.  If  he  could  do 
it,  he  could  also  acknowledge  it. 

'  Oh,  I  just  went  to  sea  again,'  he  answered  frankly. 
*  I  got  a  place  as  A.B.  on  a  Norwegian  ship  that  traded 
with  Dieppe ;  deal  planks  and  so  forth ;  and  the  hard 


'e'xj/^^s^ 


A  CHANCE  ENCOUNTER 


59 


work  and  fresh  air  I  got  in  the  North  Sea  have  done 
me  good,  I  fancy.  I'm  ever  so  much  stronger  than  I 
was  last  winter.' 

Mrs.  Hesslegrave  had  been  longing  for  some  time  to 
interpose  in  this  very  curious  and  doubtful  conver- 
sation ;  and  now  she  could  restrain  her  desire  no 
longer. 

*  You  do  it  for  your  health,  then,  I  suppose?'  she 
ventured  to  suggest,  as  if  on  pur^iose  to  save  her  own 
self-respect  and  the  credit  of  Bufus  Mortimer's  society. 
*  You've  been  ordered  it  by  the  doctor  ?* 

*  Oh,  dear  no !     I  do  it  for  my  livelihood,'  Arnold 
Willoughby  answered  stoutly,  not  in  the  least  ashamed. 
'  I'm  a  sailor  by  trade  ;  I  go  to  sea  all  summer,  and  I 
paint  all  winter.    It's  a  very  good  alternation.    I  find , 
it  suits  me.* 

This  was  too  much  for  Mrs.  Hesslegrave.  She  felt 
that  Mortimer,  though  he  had  a  perfect  right,  of 
course,  to  choose  his  own  friends  where  he  liked, 
ought  not  to  have  exposed  dear  Kathleen  and  herself 
to  the  contagion,  so  to  speak,  of  such  strange  acc^uaint- 
ances. 

'  Dear  me !'  she  cried  suddenly,  looking  up  at  the  big 
brick  tower  that  rose  sheer  just  in  front  of  them  :  'here 
we  are  at  the  Frari ! — Kathleen,  didn't  you  say  you 
wanted  to  go  ia  and  look  again  at  that  picture  of  What's- 
his-name's — Ah,  yes,  Tintoretto's — in  the  Scuola  di 
San  llocco? — Oh,  thank  j'ou  so  much,  Mr.  Mortimer; 
we  won't  trouble  you  to  wait  for  us.  Kathleen  knows 
her  way  on  foot  all  over  Venice.  She  can  get  from 
place  to  place  in  the  most  wonderful  fashion,  from  end 
to  end  of  the  town,  by  these  funny  little  calli.  It 
va8  so  kind  of  you  to  give  us  a  lift  so  far. — Here, 
Kathleen;  8tep  out!    Good-morning,  Mr.  Mortimer; 


4- 


6o 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


your  gondola's  just  charming. — Good-morning,  Mr. — 
ah— I  forget  your  friend's  namo ;  oh,  of  course :  Mr. 
Willoughby.' 

The  inevitable  old  man  with  a  boat-hook  was  hold- 
ing the  gondola  by  this  time  to  the  bank,  and  extend- 
ing his  hat  for  the  expected  penny.  Mrs.  Hesslegrave 
stepped  out,  with  her  most  matronly  air,  looking  a 
dignilied  Juno.  Kathleen  stepped  after  her  on  to  the 
slippery  stone  pavement,  green-grown  by  the  water's 
edge.  As  ^^e  did  so,  she  turned,  with  her  sweet 
blight  figure,  and  waved  a  friendly  good-bye  to  the  two 
painters,  the  rich  and  the  poor  impartially. 

'And  I  hope,  Mr.  Mortimer,'  she  called  out  in  her 
cheeriest  tone,  *  you'll  bring  Mr.  Willoughby  with  you 
next  tveek  to  our  usual  tea-and-talk  at  four  on  Wednes- 
day.' 

As  for  poor  Mrs.  Hesslegrave,  she  stood  speechless 
for  a  second,  dumfounded  with  dismay,  on  the  stone 
steps  of  the  Frari.  What  could  Kathleen  be  thinking 
of  ?  That  dreadful  man !  And  this  was  the  very 
misfortune  she  had  been  bent  on  averting  1 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A  CASE   OF   CONSCIENCE. 

But  the  cup  of  Mrs.  Hesslegrave's  humiliation  was  not 
yet  full.  A  moment's  pause  lost  all — and  lo !  the 
floodgates  of  an  undesirable  acquaintance  were  opened 
upon  her. 

It  was  charity  that  did  it— pure  feminine  charity, 
not  unmingled  with  a  faint  sense  of  how  noblesse  oblige, 
and  what  dignity  demands  from  a  potential  Lady 


*1 


CASE  OF  CONSCIENCE 


6l 


Bountiful.  For  the  inevitable  old  man,  with  a  ram- 
shackled  boat-hook  in  his  wrinkled  brown  hand,  and 
no  teeth  to  boast  of,  who  invariably  moors  your 
gondola  to  the  shore  while  you  alight  from  the  prow, 
and  holds  his  hat  out  afterwards  for  a  few  loose  soldi, 
bowed  low  to  the  ground  in  his  picturesque  rags  as 
Mrs.  Hesslegrave  passed  him.  Now,  proper  respect 
for  her  superior  position  always  counted  for  much  with 
Mrs.  Hesslegrave.  She  paused  for  a  moment  at  the 
top  of  the  mouldering  steps  in  helpless  search  for  an 
elusive  pocket.  But  the  wisdom  and  foresight  of  her 
London  dressmaker  had  provided  for  this  contnigency 
well  beforehand  by  concealing  it  so  far  back  among  the 
recesses  of  her  gown  that  she  fumbled  in  vain  and 
found  no  soldi.  In  her  difficulty  she  turned  with  an 
appealing  glance  to  Kathleen. 

'  Have  you  got  any  coppers,  dear  ?*  she  inquired  in 
her  most  mellifluous  voice.  And  Kathleen  forthwith 
proceeded  in  like  manner  to  prosecute  her  search  for 
them  in  the  labyrinthine  folds  of  her  own  deftly- 
screened  pocket. 

On  what  small  twists  and  turns  of  circumstance  does 
our  whole  life  hang !  Kathleen's  fate  hinged  entirely 
on  that  momentary  delay,  coupled  with  the  equally 
accidental  meeting  at  the  doors  of  the  Academy.  For 
while  she  paused  and  hunted,  as  the  old  man  stood 
bowing  and  scraping  by  the  water's  edge,  and  consider- 
ing to  himself,  with  his  obsequious  smile,  that  after  so 
long  a  search  the  forestieri  couldn't  decently  produce 
in  the  end  any  smaller  coin  than  half  a  lira — Rufus 
Mortimer,  perceiving  the  cause  of  their  indecision, 
stepped  forward  in  the  gondola  with  his  own  purse 
open.  At  the  very  same  instant,  too,  Arnold 
Willoughby,  half-forgetful  of  his  altered  fortunes,  and 


6a 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


conscious  only  of  the  fact  that  the  incident  was  dis- 
composing at  the  second  for  a  lady,  pulled  out  loose 
his  scanty  stock  of  available  cash,  and  selected  from  it 
the  smallest  silver  coin  he  happened  to  possess,  which 
chanced  to  be  a  piece  of  fifty  centesimi.  Then,  while 
Mortimer  was  hunting  among  his  gold  to  find  a  franc, 
Arnold  handed  the  money  hastily  to  the  cringing  old 
bystander.  The  man  in  the  picturesque  rags  closed 
his  wrinkled  brown  hand  on  it  with  a  satisfied  grin ; 
and  Mortimer  tried  to  find  another  half-franc  among 
the  folds  of  his  purse  to  repay  on  the  spot  his  sailor 
acquaintance.  But  Arnold  answered  with  such  a  firm 
air  of  quiet  dignity,  *  No,  thank  you ;  allow  me  to 
settle  it,'  that  Mortimer,  after  a  moment  of  ineffectual 
remonstrance — *  But  this  is  my  gondola  * — was  fain  to 
hold  his  peace ;  and  even  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  was  con- 
strained to  acquiesce  in  the  odd  young  man's  whim 
with  a  murmured,  *  Oh,  thank  you.'  After  that,  she 
fel^  jbe  could  no  longer  be  frigid — till  the  next  oppor- 
tunity. Meanwhile,  when  Kathleen  suggested  in  her 
gentlest  and  most  enticing  voice,  *  Why  don't  you  two 
step  out  and  look  at  the  Tintorettos  with  us  ?' — Mrs. 
Hesslegrave  recognised  that  there  was  nothing  for  it 
now  but  to  smile  and  look  pleased  and  pretend  she 
really  liked  the  strange  young  man's  society. 

So  they  went  into  the  Scuola  di  San  Bocco  together. 
But  Bufus  Mortimer,  laudably  anxious  that  his  friend 
should  expend  no  more  of  his  hard-earned  cash  on 
such  unseasonable  gallantries,  took  good  care  to  go  on 
a  few  paces  ahead  and  take  tickets  for  the  whole  pa.ty 
before  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  and  Kathleen,  escorted  by  the 
unsuspecting  Arnold,  had  turned  the  corner  by  the 
rearin-^  red  church  of  the  Frari.  The  elder  lady 
arrived  at  the  v^r-  'v  'Of^ted  iront  of  the  Scuola  not  a 


A  CASE  OF  CONSCIENCE 


63 


little  out  of  breath ;  for  she  was  endowed  with  asthma, 
and  she  hated  to  walk  even  the  few  short  steps  from  the 
gondola  to  the  tiny  piazza ;  which  was  one  of  the 
reasons,  indeed,  why  Kathleen,  most  patient  and 
dutiful  and  considerate  of  daughters,  had  chosen 
Venice  rather  than  any  other  Italian  town  as  the 
scene  on  which  to  specialize  her  artistic  talent.  For 
nowhere  on  earth  is  locomotion  so  cheap  or  so  easy  as 
in  the  city  of  canals,  where  a  gondola  will  convey  you 
from  end  to  end  of  the  town,  without  noise  or  jolting, 
au  the  modest  expense  of  eightpence  sterling.  Even 
Mrs.  Hesslegrave,  however,  could  not  resist  after  a 
while  the  contagious  kindliness  of  Arnold  Willoughby's 
demeanour.  'Twas  such  a  novelty  to  him  to  be  in 
ladies'  society  nowadays,  that  he  rose  at  once  to  the 
occasion,  and  developed  at  one  bound  from  a  confirmed 
misogynist  into  an  accomplished  courtier.  The  fact 
of  it  was  he  had  been  taken  by  Kathleen's  frank 
gratitude  that  day  at  the  Academy ;  and  he  was  really 
touched  this  afternoon  by  her  evident  recollection  of 
him,  and  her  anxiety  to  show  him  all  the  politeness  in 
her  power.  Never  before  since  he  had  practically 
ceased  to  be  Earl  of  Axminster  had  any  woman 
treated  him  with  half  so  much  consideration.  Arnold 
Willoughby  was  almost  tempted  in  his  own  heart  to 
try  whether  or  not  he  had  hit  here,  by  pure  accident 
of  fate,  upon  that  rare  soul  which  could  accept  him 
and  love  him  for  the  true  gold  tliat  was  in  him,  and 
not  for  the  guinea  stamp  of  which  he  had  purposely 
divested  himself. 

As  they  enterod  the  grettt  hull,  (Jampagna's  master- 
piece, its  wails  richly  dight  with  Tintoretto's  frescoes, 
Arnold  Willoughby  drew  back  involuntarily  at  the 
first  glance  with  a  little  start  of  atjtonisbment, 


64 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


*Dear  mo,'  he  cried,  turning  round  in  his  surprise 
to  Kathleen,  and  twisting  his  left  hand  in  a  lock  of 
hair  behind  his  ear— which  was  a  trick  he  luid  when- 
ever he  was  deeply  interested — '  what  amazing  people 
these  superb  old  Venetians  were,  after  all !  Why* 
one's  never  at  the  end  of  them !  What  a  picture  it 
gives  one  of  their  magnificence  and  their  wealth,  this 
sumptuous  council-house  of  one  unimportant  brother- 
hood!' ^         '  *.  * 

*  It  is  fine,'  Mortimer  interposed,  with  a  little  smile 
of  superiority,  as  one  who  knew  it  well  of  old.  *  It's 
a  marvel  of  decoration.  Then,  I  suppose,  from 
what  you  say,  this  is  the  first  time  you'^f  f>een  here?' 

'Yes,  th5  very  first  time,'  Arnold  admitted  at  once 
with  that  perfect  frankness  which  was  his  most 
charming  characteristic.  *  Though  I've  lived  here  so 
long,  there  are  in  Venice  a  great  many  interiors  I've 
never  seen.  Outside,  I  think  I  know  every  nook  and 
corner  of  the  smallest  side-canals,  and  the  remotest 
calli,  about  as  well  as  anybody;  for  I'm  given  to 
meandering  on  foot  round  the  town ;  and  it's  only  on 
foot  one  can  ever  really  get  to  know  the  whole  of 
Venice.  Perhaps  you  wouldn't  believe  it,  but  there 
isn't  a  single  house  on  all  the  islands  that  make  up  the 
town  which  can't  be  reached  on  one's  own  legs  from 
every  other  by  some  circuit  of  bridges,  without  one's 
ever  having  to  trust  to  a  ferry-boat  or  a  gondola.  But 
of  course  you  must  know  the  tortuous  twists  and  turns 
to  get  r(^u.i'd  to  some  of  them.  So,  outside  at  least,  I 
know  my  Venice  thoroughly.  But  inside — ah,  there ! 
if  you  except  St.  Mark's  and  a  few  other  churches — 
with,  of  course,  the  Academy — I  hardly  know  it  at  all. 
There  are  dozens  of  places  you  could  take  me  to  lik^ 
this  that  I  never  stepped  inside  yet,'    . 


A  CnSE  OF  CONSCIENCE 


65 


Kathleen  was  just  going  to  ask,  *  Why  ?'  when  the 
answey  came  of  itself  to  her.  In  order  to  gain  admit- 
tance to  most  of  these  interiors,  you  have  to  pay  a 
franc  ;  and  she  remembered  now,  with  a  sudden  burst 
of  surprise,  that  a  franc  was  a  very  appreciable  sum 
indeed  to  their  new  acquaintance.  So  she  altered  her 
phrase  to : 

'Well,  I'm  very  glad  at  least  we  met  you  'o-day, 
and  have  had  the  pleasure  of  bringing  you  for  the 
first  time  to  San  llocco.' 

And  it  was  a  treat.  Arnold  couldn't  deny  that. 
He  roamed  round  those  great  rooms  in  a  fever  of 
delight,  and  gazed  with  the  fulness  of  a  painter's  soul 
at  Tintoretto's  masterpieces.  The  gorgeous  brilliancy 
of  Titian's  Annunciation,  the  naturalistic  reality  of  the 
Adoration  of  the  Magi,  the  beautiful  penitent  Magda- 
lene beside  the  fiery  cloud-flakes  of  her  twilight 
landscape — he  gloated  over  them  all  with  cultivated 
appreciation.  Kathleen  marvelled  to  herself  how  a 
mere  common  sailor  could  ever  have  imbibed  such  an 
enthralling  love  for  the  highest  art,  and  still  more 
how  he  could  ever  have  learned  to  speak  of  its  inner 
meaning  in  such  well-chosen  phrases.  It  fairly  took 
her  breath  away  when  the  young  man  in  the  jersey 
and  blue  woollen  cap  stood  entranced  before  the  fresco 
of  the  Pool  of  Bethesda,  with  its  grand  fai-away  land- 
scape, and  mused  to  himself  aloud  as  it  were : 

*  What  a  careless  giant  he  was,  to  be  sure,  this 
Tintoretto !  Why,  he  seems  just  to  fling  his  paint 
haphazard  upon  the  wall,  as  if  it  cost  him  no  more 
trouble  to  paint  an  Ascension  than  to  sprawl  his  brush 
over  the  face  of  the  plaster  :  and  yet— there  comes  out 
in  the  end  a  dream  of  soft  colour,  a  poem  in  neutral 
tiots,  a  triumphant  paean  qi  virile  imaginmg,' 


66 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


*Yes!  they're  beautiful,'  Kathleen  answered:  'ex- 
ceedingly beautiful.  And  what  you  say  of  theriqi  is  so 
true.  They're  dashed  off  with  such  princely  ease. 
You  put  into  words  what  one  would  like  to  say  one's 
self,  but  doesn't  know  how  to.' 

And,  indeed,  even  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  was  forced  to 
admit  in  her  own  mind  that,  in  spite  of  his  rough  clothes 
and  his  weather-beaten  face,  the  young  man  seemed  to 
have  ideas  and  language  above  his  station.  Not  that- 
Mrs.  Hesslegrave  thought  any  the  belter  of  him  on  that 
account.  Why  can't  young  men  be  content  to  reniain 
in  the  rank  in  life  in  which  circumstances  and  the  law 
of  the  land  have  placed  them  ?  Of  course  there  were 
Burns,  and  Shakespeare,  and  Keats,  and  so  forth — 
not  one  of  them  a  born  gentleman  :  and  Kathleen  was 
always  telling  her  how  that  famous  Giotto  (whose 
angular  angels  she  really  couldn't  with  honesty 
pretend  to  admire)  was  at  first  nothing  more  than  a 
mere  Tuscan  shepherd  boy.  But,  then,  all  these  were 
geniuses ;  and  if  a  man  is  a  genius,  of  course  that's 
quite  another  matter.  Though,  to  be  sure,  in  our  own 
day,  genius  has  no  right  to  crop  up  in  a  common 
sailor.  It  discomposes  one's  natural  views  of  life,  and 
leads  to  such  unpleasant  and  awkward  positions. 

When  they  had  looked  at  the  Tintorettos  through  the 
whole  history  of  the  Testament,  from  the  Annuncia- 
tion downstairs  with  the  child-like  Madonna  to  tho 
Ascension  in  the  large  hall  on  the  upper  landing,  f>*^y 
turned  to  go  out  and  resume  their  places  in  the  wuil 
ing  gondola.  And  here  a  new  misfortune  lav  in  wa>l 
for  Mrs.  Hesslegrave.  'Twas  a  day  of  evil  chances. 
For  as  she  and  llufus  ]\Iortimer  took  their  seats  in  the 
stern  on  those  neatly-padded  cushions  which  rejoiced 
her   soul,  Kathleen,  to  her  immense  surprise  an4 


A  CASE  OF  COK SCIENCE 


6? 


no  small  internal  annoyance,  abruptly  announced  her 
intention  of  walking;  home  over  the  bridge  by  herself, 
80  as  to  pass  the  colour-shop  in  the  Calle  San  Moise. 
She  wanted  some  ultramarine,  she  said,  for  the  picture 
she  was  going  to  paint  in  the  corner  of  the  Giudecca. 
Of  course,  Arnold  Willougliby  insisted  upon  accom- 
panying her;  and  so,  to  complete  that  morning's 
mishaps,  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  had  the  misery  of  seeing 
her  daughter  walk  off,  through  a  narrow  and  darkling 
Venetian  street,  accompanied  on  her  way  by  tb.ut 
awful  man,  whom  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  had  been  doing  all 
she  knew  to  shake  off  from  the  very  first  moment  she 
bad  the  ill-luck  to  set  eyes  on  him. 

Not  that  Kathleen  had  the  slight  (^st  intention  of 
disobeying  or  irritating  or  annoying  her  mother. 
Nothing,  indeed,  could  have  been  further  from  her 
innocent  mind  ;  it  was  merely  that  she  didn't  under- 
stand or  suspect  Mrs.  Hesslegrave's  objection  to  the 
frank  young  sailor.  Too  honest  to  doubt  him,  she 
missed  the  whole  point  of  her  mother's  dark  hints. 
So  she  walked  home  with  Arnold,  conscience  free, 
without  the  faintest  idea  she  was  doing  anything  that 
could  possibly  displease  Mrs.  Hesslegrave.  They 
walked  on,  side  by  side,  througli  strange  little  lanes, 
bounded  high  on  either  hand  by  lofty  old  palaces,  which 
raised  their  mildewed  fronts  and  antique  arched 
windows  above  one  another's  heads,  in  emulous  striv- 
ing towards  the  scanty  sunshine.  As  for  Arnold 
Willoughby,  he  darte '  round  tbe  corners  like  one  that 
knew  them  intimately.  Kathleen  had  flattered  lier 
soul  she  could  find  her  way  tolerably  well  on  foot 
through  the  best  part  of  Venice :  but  she  soon  dis- 
covered that  Arnold  Willoughby  knew  liow  to  thread 
his  path  througli  that  seeming  labyrinth  far  more 


68 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


;h' 


I  i^ 


easily  than  she  could  do.  Here  and  there  he  would 
cross  some  narrow  high-pitched  bridge  over  a  petty 
canal,  where  market-boats  from  the  mainland  stood 
delivering  vegetables  at  gloomy  portals  that  opened 
close  down  to  the  water's  edge,  or  woodmen  from  the 
hills,  with  heavily-laden  barges,  handed  fagots  through 
grated  windows  to  bare-headed  and  yellow-haired 
Venetian  housewives.  Ragged  shutters  and  iron  bal- 
conies overhung  the  green  waterway.  Then,  again, 
he  would  skirt  for  awhile  some  ill  scented  Eio,  where 
strings  of  onions  hung  out  in  the  sun  from  every 
second  door,  and  cheap  Madonnas  in  gilt  and  painted 
wood  sat  enshrined  in  plaster  niches  behind  burning 
oil-lamps.  On  and  on  he  led  Kathleen  by  unknown 
side-streets,  past  wonderful  little  squares  or  flag-paved 
campi,  each  adorned  with  its  ancient  church  and  its 
slender  belfry;  over  the  colossal  curve  of  the  Rial  to 
with  its  glittering  shops  on  either  side ;  and  home  by 
queer  byways,  where  few  feet  else  save  of  native 
Venetians  ever  ventured  to  penetrate.  Now  and  again 
round  the  corners  came  the  echoing  cries,  *  StaU,* 
*  Preme  '  and  some  romantic  gondola  with  its  covered 
trappings,  like  a  floating  black  hearse,  would  glide 
past  like  lightning.  Well  as  Kathleen  knew  the  town, 
it  was  still  a  revelation  to  her.  She  walked  on, 
entranced,  with  a  painter's  eye,  through  that  ever- 
varying,  ever-moving,  ever-enchanting  panorama. 

And  they  talked  as  they  went;  the  young  sailor- 
painter  talked  on  and  on,  frankly,  delightfully,  charm- 
ingly. He  talked  of  Kathleen  and  her  art ;  of  what 
she  would  work  at  this  winter  ;  of  where  he  himself 
meant  to  pitch  his  easel ;  of  the  chances  of  their  both 
choosing  some  neighbouring  subject.  Confiden  -o  be- 
gets confidence.    He  talked  so  much  about  Kathleen, 


A  CASE  OF  COI^SCIENCE 


69 


and  drew  her  on  so  about  her  aims  and  aspirations  in 
art,  that  Kathleen  in  turn  felt  compelled  for  very 
shame  to  repay  the  compliment,  and  to  ask  him  much 
about  himself  and  his  mode  of  working.  Arnold 
Willoughby  smiled  and  showed  those  exquisite  teeth 
of  his  when  she  questioned  him  first.  *  It's  the  one 
subject,*  he  answered — *  self — on  which  they  say  all 
men  are  fluent  and  none  agi-eeable.'  But  he  belied 
his  own  epigram,  Kathleen  thought,  as  he  continued : 
for  he  talked  about  himself,  and  yet  he  talked  delight- 
fully. It  was  so  novel  to  hear  a  man  so  discuss  the 
question  of  his  own  place  in  life,  as  though  it  mattered 
little  whether  he  remained  a  common  sailor  or  rose  to 
be  reckoned  a  painter  and  a  gentleman.  He  never 
even  seemed  to  feel  the  immense  gulf  which  in 
Kathleen's  eyes  separated  the  two  callings.  It 
appeared  to  be  to  him  a  mere  matter  of  convenience 
which  of  the  two  he  followed.  He  talked  of  them 
so  calmly  as  alternative  trades  in  the  pursuit  of 
which  a  man  might  if  he  chose  earn  an  honest  live- 
lihood. 

*  But  surely  you  feel  the  artist's  desire  to  create 
beautiful  things?'  Kathleen  cried  at  last.  'They're 
not  quite  on  the  same  level  with  you — fine  art  and 
sail-reefing  !* 

That  curious  restrained  curl  was  just  visible  for  a 
second  round  the  delicate  corners  of  Arnold  Wil- 
loughby's  honest  mouth. 

'  You  compel  me  to  speak  of  myself,'  he  said, '  when 
I  would  much  rather  be  speaking  of  somebody  or 
something  else ;  but  if  I  must,  I  will  tell  you.' 

*  Do,'  Kathleen  said,  drawing  close,  with  more 
eagerness  in  her  manner  than  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  would 
have   considered   entirely  ladylike.     *  It's  so  much 


70 


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more  interesting.*    And  then,  fearing  she  had  perhaps 
gone  a  little  too  far,  she  blushed  to  her  ear-tips. 

Arnold  noticed  that  dainty  blush — it  became  her 
wonderfully — and  was  confirmed  by  it  in  his  good 
opinion  of  Kathleen's  disinterestedness.  Could  this 
indeed  be  the  one  woman  on  earth  to  whom  he  could 
really  give  himself  ? — the  one  woman  who  could  take 
a  man  for  what  he  was  in  himself,  not  for  what  the 
outside  world  chose  to  call  him  ?  He  was  half  inclined 
to  think  so. 

'  Well,'  he  continued  with  a  reflective  air,  *  there's 
much  to  be  said  for  art — and  much  also  for  the 
common  sailor.  I  may  be  right,  or  I  may  be  wrong ; 
I  don't  want  to  fol'ce  anybody  else  into  swallowing  my 
opinions  wholesale ;  I'm  far  too  uncertain  about  them 
myself  for  that ;  but  as  far  as  my  own  conduct  goes 
(which  is  all  I  have  to  answer  for),  why,  I  must  base 
it  upon  them ;  I  must  act  as  seems  most  just  and 
right  to  my  own  conscience.  Now,  I  feel  a  sailor's 
life  is  one  of  undoubted  usefulness  to  the  community. 
He's  employed  in  carrying  commodities  of  universally 
acknowledged  value  from  the  places  where  they're 
produced  to  the  places  where  they're  needed.  Nobody 
can  deny  that  that's  a  useful  function.  The  man  who 
does  that  can  justify  his  life  and  his  livelihood  to  his 
fellows.  No  caviller  can  ever  accuse  him  of  eating  his 
bread  unearned,  an  idle  drone,  at  the  table  of  the 
commonalty.  That's  why  I  determined  to  be  a 
common  sailor.  It  was  work  I  could  do ;  work  that 
suited  me  well;  work  I  felt  my  conscience  could  wholly 
approve  of.' 

'  I  see,'  Kathleen  answered,  very  much  taken  aback. 
It  had  never  even  occurred  to  her  that  a  man  could  so 
choose  his  calling  in  life  on  conscientious  rather  than 


A  CASE  OF  CONSCIENCE 


ft 


On  personal  grounds;  could  attach  more  importance 
to  the  usefulness  and  lawfulness  of  tjie  trade  he  took 
up  than  to  the  money  to  be  made  at  it.  The  earnest- 
looking  sailor-man  in  the  rough  woollen  clothos  was 
opening  up  to  her  new  perspectives  of  moral  possi- 
bility. 

*  But  didn't  you  long  for  art  too  ?'  she  went  on  after 
a  brief  pause ;  *  you  who  have  so  dislinct  a  natural 
vocation,  so  keen  a  taste  for  form  and  colour  V' 

Arnold  Willoughby  looked  hard  at  hor. 

*  Yes,'  he  answered  frankly,  with  a  scrutinizing 
glance.  *I  did.  I  longed  for  it.  But  at  first  I  kept 
the  longing  sternly  down.  I  thought  it  was  wrong 
of  me  even  to  wish  to  indulge  it.  I  had  put  my  hand 
to  the  plough,  and  I  didn't  like  to  look  back  again. 
Still,  when  my  health  began  to  give  way,  I  saw  things 
somewhat  differently.  I  was  as  anxious  as  ever,  then, 
to  do  some  work  in  the  world  that  should  justify  my 
existence,  so  to  speak,  to  my  fellow-creatures ;  anxious 
to  feel  I  didn't  sit,  a  mere  idle  mouth,  at  the  banquet 
of  humanity.  But  I  began  to  perceive  that  man 
cannot  live  by  bread  alone ;  that  the  useful  trades, 
though  they  are,  after  all,  at  bottom  the  noblest  and 
most  ennobling,  do  not  fill  up  the  sum  of  human  exist- 
ence :  that  we  have  need,  too,  ol  books,  of  poetry,  of 
pictures,  statues,  music.  So  I  determined  to  give  up 
my  life,  half-and-half,  to  either— to  sail  by  summer, 
and  paint  by  winter,  if  only  I  could  earn  enough  by 
painting  to  live  upon.  For  my  first  moral  postulate  is 
that  every  man  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself  if  he 
can't  win  wage  enough  by  his  own  exertions  to  keep 
him  going.  That  k,  in  fact,  the  one  solid  and  practical 
test  of  bin  usefulness  to  his  fellow-creatures — whether 
or  not  they  are  willing  to  pay  him  that  he  may  keey 


7a 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


lit  worV.  for  them.  If  he  can't  do  that,  then  I  hold 
without  doubt  he  is  a  moral  failure.  And  it's  his  duty 
to  take  himseff  sternly  in  hand  till  he  fits  himself  at 
once  for  being  the  equal  in  this  respect  of  the  navvy 
or  the  scavenger.' 

'  But  art  drew  you  on  ?'  Kathleen  said,  much 
wondering  in  her  soul  at  this  strange  intrusion  of  con- 
science into  such  unfamiliar  fields. 

'Yes,  art  drew  me  on,'  Arnold  Willoughby  answered ; 
'  and  though  I  had  my  doubts,  I  allowed  it  to  draw 
me.  I  felt  I  was  following  my  own  inclination ;  but 
I  felt,  too,  I  was  doing  right  to  some  extent,  if  only  I 
could  justify  myself  by  painting  pictures  good  enough 
to  give  pleasure  to  others :  the  test  of  their  goodness 
being  always  saleability.  The  fact  is,  the  sea  didn't 
satisfy  all  the  wants  of  my  nature ;  and  since  we 
men  are  men,  not  sheep  or  monkeys,  I  hold  we  are 
justified  in  indulging  to  the  full  these  higher  and 
purely  human  or  civihzed  tastes,  just  as  truly  as  the 
lower  ones.  So  I  determined,  after  all,  to  take  to 
art  for  half  my  livelihood— not,  I  hope,  without  con- 
Bcientious  justification.  For  I  would  never  wish  to  do 
anything  in  life  which  might  not  pass  the  honest 
scrutiny  of  an  impartial  jury  of  moral  inquisitors. — 
"Why,  here  we  are  at  the  Piazza  I  I'd  no  idea  we'J 
got  so  far  yet !' 

'  Nor  I  either !'  Kathleen  exclaimed.  *  I'm  sorry  for 
it,  Mr.  Willoughby — for  this  is  all  so  interesting. — But, 
at  any  rate,  you're  coming  with  Mr.  Mortimer  on 
Wednesday.* 

Arnold  Willoughby's  face  flushed  all  aglow  with 
pleasure.  The  misogynist  in  him  was  thoroughly  over- 
come; nothing  remained  but  the  man  chivalrously 
grateful  to  a  beautiful  woman  for  her  undisguised 


MAKING  THEIR  MINDS  UP 


73 


interest.  He  raised  his  Imt,  radiant.  '  Thank  you 
BO  much/  he  answered  simply,  like  the  j^entleman 
that  he  was.  '  You  may  be  sure  I  won't  forget  it. 
How  kind  of  you  to  ask  me  !' 

For  he  knew  it  was  the  common  sailor  in  rough 
clothes  she  had  invited,  not  Albert  Ogilvie  RodLurn, 
'seventh  Earl  of  Axminstcr. 


J  "■, 


CHAPTER  Vn. 


MAKING   THEIR   MINDS    UP. 

That  winter  through,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Hesslegravo, 
Kathleen  saw  a  great  deal  of  the  interesting  sailor  who 
had  taken  to  painting.  Half  by  accident,  half  by 
design,  they  had  chosen  their  pitches  very  close 
together.  Both  of  them  were  painting  on  that  quaint 
old  quay,  the  Fondamenta  delle  Zattere,  overlooking 
the  broad  inlet  or  Canal  della  Giudecca,  where  most 
of  the  sea-going  craft  of  Venice  lie  at  anchor,  unload- 
ing. Kathleen's  canvas  was  turned  inland,  towards 
the  crumbling  old  church  of  San  Trovaso,  and  the 
thick  group  of  little  bridges,  curved  high  in  the 
middle,  that  span  the  minor  canals  of  that  half- 
deserted  quarter.  She  looked  obliquely  down  two  of 
those  untrodden  streets  at  once,  so  as  to  get  a  double 
glimpse  of  two  sets  of  bridges  at  all  possible  angles, 
and  afford  herself  a  difficult  lesson  in  the  perspective 
of  arches.  Midway  between  the  two  rose  the  tapering 
campanile  of  the  quaint  old  church,  with  the  acacias 
by  its  side,  that  hang  their  drooping  branches  and 
feathery  foliage  into  the  stagnant  water  of  the  placid 
Bio.    But  Arnold  Willoughby's  easel  was  turned  id 


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AT  MARKET  VALUE 


the  opposite  direction,  towards  the  seaward  runletg 
and  the  open  channel  where  the  big  ships  lay  moored ; 
he  loved  better  to  paint  the  sea-going  vessels  he  knew 
and  understood  so  well— the  thick  forest  of  masts  ;  the 
russet-brown  sails  of  the  market-boats  from  Mestre ; 
the  bright  reds  and  greens  of  the  Chioggia  fisher-craft ; 
the  solemn  gray  of  the  barges  that  bring  fresh  water 
from  Fusina.  It  was  maritime  Venice  he  could  be.^t  re- 
produce ;  while  Kathleen's  lighter  brush  reflected  r?  ither 
the  varying  moods  and  tessellated  floor  of  the  narrow 
canals,  which  are  to  the  sea-girt  city  what  streets  and 
alleys  are  to  more  solid  towns  of  the  mainland. 

Thus  painting  side  by  side,  they  saw  much  of  one 
another.  Bufus  Mortimer,  who  cherished  a  real  liking 
for  Kathleen,  grew  jealous  at  times  of  the  penniless 
sailor-man.  It  seemed  to  him  a  pity,  indeed,  that  Kath- 
leen should  get  entangled  with  a  fellow  like  that,  who 
could  never,  by  any  possibility,  be  in  a  position  to  marry 
her.  But  then  Mortimer,  being  an  American,  had  a 
profound  faith  at  bottom  in  the  persuasive  worth  of  the 
almighty  dollar;  and  though  he  was  really  a  good 
fellow  with  plenty  of  humanity  and  generous  feeling, 
he  didn't  doubt  that  in  the  end,  when  it  came  to 
settling  down,  Kathleen  would  prefer  the  solid  advan- 
tages of  starting  in  life  as  a  rich  Philadelphian's  wife 
to  the  sentimental  idea  of  love  in  a  cottage — and  a  poor 
one  at  that — with  a  destitute  sailor  who  dabbled  liko 
an  amateur  in  marine  painting.  However,  being  a 
prudent  man,  and  knowing  that  proximity  in  these 
affairs  is  half  the  battle,  Mortimer  determined  to  pitch 
his  own  canvas  in  the  same  part  of  the  town,  and  to 
paint  a  picture  close  by  to  Kathleen  and  Willoughby. 
This  involved  on  his  part  no  small  departure  from  his 
usual  pi*actice;  for  Mortimer  was  by  choice  a  confirmed 


-.- V  "  '• ,;:" 


w^mm^m^m 


m- 


wm 


MAKING  THEIR  MINDS  UP 


75 


figure-painter,  who  worked  in  a  studio  from  the  Hving 
model.  But  he  managed  to  choose  an  outdoor 
subject  combining  figure  with  landscape,  and  dashed 
away  vigorously  at  a  background  of  brown  ware- 
houses and  mouldering  arches,  with  a  laughing  gioup 
of  gay  Venetian  models  picturesquely  posed  as  a  merry 
christening-party,  by  the  big  doors  of  San  Trovaso. 

Money  gives  a  man  a  pull ;  and  Arnold  Willoughby 
felt  it  when  every  morning  Kathleen  floated  up  to  her 
work  in  Euftts  Mortimer's  private  gondola,  with  Mrs. 
Hesslegrave  leaning  back  (in  her  capacity  of  chaperon) 
on  those  well-padded  cushions,  and  the  two  handson'e 
gondoliers  waiting  obsequious  and  attentive  by  the 
marble  steps  for  their  employer's  orders.  But  it  was 
just  what  he  wanted.  For  he  could  see  with  his  own 
eyes  that  Mortimer  was  paying  very  marked  court  to 
the  pretty  English  girl-artist ;  and,  indeed,  Mortimer, 
after  his  country's  wont,  made  no  attempt  to  disguise 
that  patent  fact  in  any  way.  On  the  other  hand, 
Arnold  perceived  that  Kathleen  seemed  to  pay  quite 
as  much  attention  to  the  penniless  sailor  as  to  the 
American  millionaire.  And  that  was  exactly  what 
Arnold  Willoughby  desired  to  find  out.  He  could  get 
any  number  of  women  to  flutter  eagerly  and  anxiously 
round  Lord  Axminster's  chair ;  but  he  would  never 
care  to  take  any  one  of  them  all  for  better,  for  worse, 
unless  she  was  ready  to  give  up  money  and  position 
and  more  eligible  offers  for  the  sake  of  Arnold  Wil- 
loughby, the  penniless  sailor  and  struggling  artist. 

And,  indeed,  in  spite  of  his  well-equipped  gondola, 
Kufus  Mortimer  didn't  somehow  have  things  all  his 
own  way.  If  Kathleen  came  down  luxuriously  every 
morning  in  the  Cristoforo  Colombo,  she  oftenest  re- 
turned to  the  piazza  pn  foot,  b^  devious  b^wavs,  with 


mmi^f^^mmm'f'^f'Km^ 


76 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


Arnold  Willoughby.     She  liked  those  walks  ever  so 

much  :  Mr.  Willoughby  was  always  such  a  delightful 

companion;  and,  sailor  or  no  sailor,  he  had  really 

picked  up  an  astonishing  amount  of  knowledge  about 

Venetian  history,  antiquities  and  architecture.     On 

one  such  day,  towards  early  spring,  as  they  walked 

together  through  the  narrow  lanes,  overshadowed  by 

mighty  cornices,  where  one  could  touch  the  houses  on 

either  hand  as  one  went,  a  pretty  little  Italian  girl, 

about  five  years  old,  ran  hastily  out  of  a  musty  shop 

over  whose  door  hung  salt  fish  and  long  strings  of 

garlic.     She  was  singing  to  herself  as  she  ran  a  queer 

old  song  in  the  Venetian  dialect — 

'  Vustii  che  mi  te  insegna  a  navegar  ? 
Yate  a  far  una  barca  o  una  batela :' 

but  when  her  glance  fell  on  Arnold  Willoughby  she 
looked  up  at  him  with  a  merry  twinkle  in  her  big 
brown  eyes,  and  dropped  him  a  little  curtsey  of  the 
saucy  Southern  pattern.  *  Buon  giorno,  sior,'  she  cried, 
in  the  liquid  Venetian  patois.  And  Arnold  answered 
with  a  pleasant  smile  of. friendly  recognition,  'Buon 
giorno,  piccola.' 

'  You  know  her  ?'  Kathleen  asked,  half  wondering 
to  herself  how  her  painter  had  made  the  acquaintance 
of  the  little  golden-haired  Venetian. 

*  Oh  dear  yes,'  the  young  man  answered  with  a 
smile.  *  That's  Cecca,  that  little  one.  She  knows 
me  very  well.*  He  hesitated  a  moment ;  then  on 
purpose,  as  if  to  try  her,  he  went  on  very  quietly :  *  In 
point  of  fact,  I  lodge  there.' 

Kathleen  was  conscious  of  a  distinct  thrill  of  sur- 
prise, not  unmixed  with  something  like  horror  or 
disgust.  She  had  grown  accustomed  by  this  time  to 
ber  companion's  rough  clothes,  and  tp  hip  sf^ilor-lik^ 


.'jj*if»?3<9Wgj!fi^?*t|«wi«q^^ 


fn^m^Bri^^^SPf^^e^ft^Sl^iSi^g^fiiKp 


MAKING  THEIR  MINDS  UP 


77 


demeanour,  redeemed  as  it  was  in  her  eyes  by  his 
artistic  feeling,  and  his  courteous  manners,  which  she 
always  felt  in  her  heart  were  those  of  a  perfect  gentle- 
man. But  it  gave  her  a  little  start  even  now  to  find 
that  the  man  who  could  talk  so  beatitifuUy  about 
Gentile  Bellini  and  Vittore  Carpaccio — the  man  who 
taught  her  to  admire  and  understand  for  the  first 
time  the  art  of  the  very  earliest  Venetian  painters; 
the  man  who  so  loved  the  great  Romanesque  arcades 
of  the  Fondaco  dei  Turchi,  and  who  gloated  over  the 
details  of  the  mosaics  in  St.  Mark's — could  consent  to 
live  in  a  petty  Italian  shop,  reeking  with  salt  cod  and 
overhanging  the  noisome  bank  of  a  side-canal  more 
picturesque  than  sweet- smelling.  She  showed  her 
consternation  in  her  face  ;  for  Arnold,  who  was  watch- 
ing her  close,  went  on  with  a  slight  shadow  on  his 
frank  sun-burnt  forehead :  *  Yes,  I  live  in  there.  I 
thought  you'd  think  the  worse  of  me  when  you  came 
to  know  it.* 

Thus  openly  challenged,  Kathleen  turned  round  to 
him  with  her  fearless  eyes,  and  said  perhaps  a  little 
more  than  she  would  ever  have  said  had  he  not  driven 
her  to  avow  it. 

*  Mr.  Willoughby,*  she  answered,  gazing  straight 
into  his  honest  face,  *  it  isn't  a  pretty  place,  and  I 
wouldn't  like  to  live  in  it  myself,  I  confess;  bat  I 
don't  think  the  worse  of  you.  I  respect  you  so  much, 
I  really  don't  believe  anything  of  that  sort — of  any 
sort,  perhaps— could  ever  make  me  think  the  worse  of 
you.    So  there !    I've  told  you.' 

*  Thank  you,*  Arnold  answered  low.  And  then  he 
was  silent.  Neither  spoke  for  some  moments.  Each 
was  thinking :  *  Have  I  said  too  much  ?'  And  Arnold 
"Willoughby  was  ^Isp  thinking  very  seriously  in  his 


•I 


m 


til 


78 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


i  .t: 


li   5: 


;   ^ 


B-  '^ 


own  mind :  *  Having  gone  so  far,  ought  I  not  now  to 
go  farther  ?' 

However,  being  a  prudent  man,  he  reflected  to  him- 
self that  if  he  could  hardly  pay  his  own  way  as  yet  by 
his  art,  he  c  rtainly  could  not  pay  somebody  else's. 
So  he  held  his  tongue  for  the  moment,  and  went  home 
a  little  later,  to  his  single  room  overlooking  the  side- 
canal,  to  ruminate  at  his  leisure  over  this  new  face  to 
his  circumstances. 

And  Kathleen,  too,  went  home— to  think  much 
about  Arnold  Willoughby.  Both  young  people,  in 
fact,  spent  the  best  part  of  that  day  in  thinking  of 
nothing  else  sa-ve  one  another ;  which  was  a  tolerably 
good  sign  to  the  experienced  observer  that  they  were 
falling  in  love,  whether  they  knew  it  or  knew  it  not. 

For  when  Kathleen  got  home,  she  shut  herself  up 
by  herself  in  her  own  pretty  room  with  the  dainty 
wall-paper,  and  leaned  out  of  the  window.  It  was  a 
beautiful  window,  on  the  Grand  Canal,  quite  close  to 
the  Piazza,  and  the  Doges'  Palace,  and  the  Eivi  degli 
Schiavoni ;  and  it  looked  across  the  inlet  towards  the 
Dogana  di  MarR,  and  the  dome  of  Santa  Maria,  with 
the  campanile  of  San  Giorgio  on  its  lonely  mud-island 
in  the  middle  distance.  Beyond  lay  a  spacious  field 
of  burnished  gold,  the  shallow  water  of  the  lagoon  in 
the  full  flood  of  sunshine.  But  Kathleen  had  no  eyes 
that  lovely  afternoon  for  the  creeping  ships  that  glided 
in  and  out  with  stately  motion  through  the  tortuous 
channel  which  leads  between  islets  of  gray  slime  to 
the  mouth  of  the  Lido  and  the  open  sea.  Great  red 
lateen  sails  swerved  and  luffed  unnoticed.  All  she 
could  think  of  now  was  Arnold  Willoughby,  and  his 
lodgings  at  the  salt-fish  shop.  Her  whole  soul  was 
deeply  stirred  by  that  strange  disclosure, 


**■■, 


•w 


>^.ii'iij>%ii^4ji^;pipppp9jiij|iijn.wpii^^ 


MAKING  THEIR  MINDS  UP 


79 


She  might  have  guessed  it  before :  yet,  now  she 
knew  it,  it  frightened  her.  Was  it  right  of  her,  she 
asked  herself  over  and  over  again,  to  let  herself  fall  in 
love,  as  she  felt  she  was  doing,  with  a  common  sailor, 
who  could  live  contentedly  in  a  small  Italian  magazeu, 
inside  whose  doors  she  herself  would  hardly  consent 
to  show  her  face  ?  Was  it  lady-like  ?  was  it  womanly 
of  her  ? 

She  had  her  genuine  doubts.  Few  women  would 
have  felt  otherwise.  For  to  women  the  conventions 
count  for  more  than  to  men ;  and  the  feelings  of  class 
are  more  deep-seated  and  more  persistent,  especially 
in  all  that  pertains  to  love  and  marriage.  A  man  can 
readily  enough  *  marry  beneath  him ';  but  to  a  woman 
it  is  a  degradation  to  give  herself  away  to  what  she 
thinks  an  inferior.  An  inferior  ?  Even  as  she  thought 
it,  Kathleen  Hesslegrave's  mind  revolted  with  a  rush 
against  the  base  imputation.  He  was  not  her  inferior  ; 
rather,  if  it  came  to  that,  be  he  sailor  or  gentleman, 
he  was  her  superior  in  every  way.  The  man  who 
could  paint,  who  could  think,  who  could  talk  as  he 
could,  the  man  who  cherished  such  high  ideals  of  life, 
of  conduct,  of  duty,  was  everyone's  equal  and  most 
people's  superior.  He  was  her  own  superior.  In  cold 
blood  she  said  it.  He  could  think  and  dare  and  attain 
to  things  she  herself  at  her  best  could  but  blindly 
grope  after. 

In  her  diary  that  afternoon  (for  she  had  acquired 
the  bad  habit  of  keeping  a  diary)  Kathleen  wrote  down 
all  these  things,  as  she  was  wont  to  write  down  her 
inmost  thoughts ;  and  she  even  ended  with  the  direct 
avowal  to  herself,  *  I  love  him  !  I  love  him !  If  he 
asks  me,  I  will  accept  him.'  She  locked  it  up  in  her 
safest  drawer,  but  she  was  not  ashamed  of  it, 


!Ri 


,,yiiijpi.UiiJipipi|iv. 


80 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


At  the  very  same  moment,  however,  Arnold  Wil- 
loughby  for  his  part  was  leaning  out  of  his  window  in 
turn,  in  the  wee  top  room  of  the  house  above  the  salt- 
fish  shop  in  the  tiny  side-street,  with  his  left  hand 
twisted  in  the  lock  behind  his  ear,  after  that  curious 
fashion  of  his,  and  was  thinking — of  what  else  save 
Kathleen  Hesslegrave  ? 

It  was  a  pretty  enough  wii^dow  in  its  way,  too,  that 
leaded  lattice  on  the  high  fourth  floor  in  the  Calle  del 
Paradiso ;  and,  as  often  happens  in  Venetian  side- 
streets,  when  you  mount  high  enough  in  the  skyward- 
clambering  houses,  it  commanded  a  far  more  beautiful 
and  extensive  view  than  any  stranger  could  imagine 
as  he  looked  up  from  without  at  the  narrow  chink  of 
blue  between  the  tall  rows  of  opposite  stonework.  For 
it  gave  upon  a  siJe-canal  full  of  life  and  bustle  ;  and 
it  looked  out  just  beyond  upon  a  quaint  round  tower 
with  a  Komanesque  staircase  winding  spirally  outside 
it",  and  disclosing  glimpses  in  the  further  distance  of 
spires  and  domes  and  campanili  innumerable.  But  it 
wasn't  of  the  staircase,  or  the  crowded  canal,  or  the 
long  shallow  barges  laden  with  eggs  and  fruit,  that 
Arnold  Willoughby  was  just  then  thinking.  His  mind 
was  wholly  taken  up  with  Kathleen  Hesslegrave  and 
the  new  wide  problems  she  laid  open  before  him. 

He  knew  he  was  in  love  with  her.  He  recognised 
he  was  in  love  with  her.  And  what  was  more,  from 
the  way  she  had  said  those  words,  *  t  respect  you  so 
much,  I  don't  believe  anything  on  earth  could  ever 
make  me  think  the  worse  of  you,'  he  felt  pretty  sure 
in  his  own  mind  she  loved  him  in  return,  and  had 
divined  his  love  for  her.  Even  his  native  modesty 
would  not  allow  him  to  deceive  himself  on  that  s^ore 
any  longer.    For  he  was  a  modest  man,  little  given  to 


mf^^'s^'mi^iiif^p^^ 


MAKING  THEIR  MINDS  UP 


Ct 


fancying  that  women  were  'gone  on  him/  as  Mr. 
Reginald  Hesslegrave  was  wont  to  phrase  it  in  his 
peculiar  dialect.  Indeed,  Arnold  Willoughby  had  had 
ample  cause  for  modesty  in  that  direction  ;  Lady  Sark 
had  taught  him  by  bitter  experience  to  know  his 
proper*  place ;  and  he  had  never  forgotten  that  one 
sharp  lesson.  She  was  a  simple  clergyman's  daughter 
near  Oxford  when  first  he  met  her ;  and  he  had  fallen 
in  love  at  once  with  her  beauty,  her  innocence,  her 
seeming  simplicity.  She  rose  quickly  to  an  earl.  He 
believed  in  her  with  all  the  depth  and  sincerity  of  his 
honest  nature.  There  was  nobody  like  Blanche,  he 
thought ;  nobody  so  true,  so  simple-minded,  so  sweet, 
so  trustworthy.  A  single  London  season  made  all  the 
difference.  Blanche  Middleton  found  herself  the 
belle  of  the  year ;  and  being  introduced  to  the  great 
world,  through  Lord  Axminster's  friends,  as  his 
affianced  bride,  made  the  best  of  her  opportunities  by 
throwing  over  one  of  the  poorest  earls  in  England  in 
favour  of  one  of  the  richest  and  most  worthless 
marquises.  From  that  moment,  the  man  who  had 
once  been  Albert  Ogilvie  Redburn,  Earl  of  Axminster, 
was  never  likely  to  overestimate  the  immediate  effect 
produced  by  his  mere  personality  on  the  heart  of  any 
woman. 

Nevertheless,  Arnold  Willoughby  was  not  disinclined 
to  believe  that  Kathleen  Hesslegrave  really  and  truly 
loved  him.  Because  one  woman  had  gone  straight 
from  his  arms  to  another  man's  bosom,  that  did  not 
prove  that  all  women  were  incapable  of  loving.  He 
believed  Kathleen  liked  him  very  much,  not  only  for 
his  own  sake,  but  also  in  spite  of  prejudices — deeply 
ingrained  prejudices,  natural  enough  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, and  which  almost  every  good  woman  (as 


mm^jfum^^ 


Bz 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


,4' 


Sjj^r 


f^orl  women  go)  would  have  shared  to  the  full 
\  her.  And  he  began  to  wonder  now  whether, 
hii\  mg  gone  so  far,  it  was  not  his  duty  to  go  a  step 
further  and  ask  her  to  marry  him.  A  man  has  no 
ri^ht  to  lead  a  woman's  heart  up  to  a  certain  point  of 
expectation,  and  then  to  draw  back  without  giving  her 
at  least  the  chance  of  accepting  him. 

But  how  could  he  ask  her?  That  was  now  the 
question.  He  certainly  wasn't  going  to  turn  his  back 
upon  his  own  deliberate  determination,  and  to  claim 
once  more  the  title  and  estates  of  the  earldom  of 
Axminster.  Having  put  his  hand  to  the  plough,  as  he 
so  often  said  to  himself,  for  very  shame  of  his  man- 
hood, he  must  never  look  back  again.  One  way  alone 
shone  clear  before  him.  Every  labourer  in  England 
could  earn  enough  by  his  own  exertions  to  support  at 
need  a  wife  and  family.  Arnold  Willoughby  would 
have  felt  himself  a  disgraceful  failure  if  he  could  not 
succeed  in  doing  what  the  merest  breaker  of  stones  on 
the  road  could  do.  He  made  up  his  mind  at  once. 
He  must  manage  to  earn  such  a  living  for  himself  as 
would  enable  him  without  shame  to  ask  Kathleen 
whether  or  not  she  liked  him  well  enough  to  share  it 
with  him  in  future. 

From  that  day  forth,  then,  this  aim  was  ever 
present  in  Arnold  Willoughby' s  mind.  He  would 
succeed  in  his  art,  for  the  sake  of  asking  the  one 
woman  on  earth  he  could  love  to  marry  him.  And 
oftener  and  oftener  as  he  paced  the  streets  of  Venice, 
he  twisted  his  finger  round  the  lock  by  his  ear  with 
that  curious  gesture  which  was  always  in  his  case  the 
surest  sign  of  profound  preoccupation. 


mffm 


A  DIGRESSION 


83 


CHAPTER  VIIL 


A   DIGRESSION. 

In  London,  meanwhile,  Mr.  Reginald  Hesslegrave,  to 
use  his  own  expressive  phrase,  was  *  going  it.'  And 
few  young  gentlemen  with  an  equally  exiguous  income 
knew  how  to  *  go  it '  at  the  same  impetuous  pace  as 
Mr.  Reginald  Hesslegrave.  That  very  same  evening, 
indeed,  as  he  walked  down  the  Strand  arm-in-arm 
with  his  chum,  Charlie  Owen — the  only  other  fellow 
in  the  office  who  fulfilled  to  the  letter  Mr.  Reginald's 
exalted  ideal  of  *  what  a  gentleman  ought  to  be ' — he 
stopped  for  a  moment  opposite  the  blushing  window 
of  a  well-known  sporting  paper  to  observe  the  result 
of  the  first  big  race  of  the  season.  Mr.  Reginald, 
as  is  the  wont  of  his  kind,  had  backed  the  favourite. 
He  drew  a  long  breath  of  disappointment  as  he 
scanned  the  telegram  giving  the  result.  *  Amber  Witch 
wins  in  a  canter,'  he  murmured  with  marked  disgust 
to  his  sympathizing  companion.     'A  rank  outsider  !' 

'Pipped  again?'  Charlie  Owen  inquired  in  the 
peculiar  dialect  at  which  they  were  both  experts. 

And  Reginald  Hesslegrave  answered : 

*  Pipped  again  !  For  a  tenner  !'  with  manly  resig- 
nation. He  was  sustained  under  this  misfortune, 
indeed,  by  the  consoling  reflection  that  the  *  tenner ' 
he  had  risked  on  Yorkshire  Lass  would  come  in  the 
end  out  of  Kathleen's  pocket.  It's  a  thing  to  be 
ashamed  of,  for  a  gentleman,  of  course,  to  have  a 
sister  who  is  obliged  to  dabble  in  paint  for  a  liveli- 
hood :  but,  from  the  practical  point  of  view,  it  has  its 
advantages  also.    And  Reggie  found  it  a  distinct  advan- 


"slS 


^«iyi^i  II  ..J  i^i|pv!|i'>l 


u 


AT  MARKKT  VAT.Vn 


tnfje  (luring  the  racing  seiison  that  ho  was  ahle  to  draw 
upon  Kathleen's  earnings  for  unhmited  loans,  which 
were  never  repaid,  it  is  true,  but  which  were  described 
as  such  in  order  to  save  undue  wear  and  tear  to  Mr. 
Jicginald's  delicate  feelings.  It  doesn't  *  look  well '  to 
ask  your  sister  point-blank  for  a  present  of  a  ten- 
pound  note ;  but  a  loan  to  that  amount,  from  time  to 
time,  to  meet  a  pressing  temporary  emergency,  is  a 
form  of  advance  that  never  grates  for  a  moment  upon 
the  most  refined  suscei  Abilities. 

*  That's  a  nuisance,*  Charlie  Owen  responded,  with 
a  sympathetic,  wry  face  ;  *  for  I  suppose  you  counted 
upon  it.*  .     " 

Now,  this  was  exactly  what  Mr.  Eeginald  had  done, 
after  the  fashion  of  the  City  clerk  who  fancies  himself 
as  a  judge  of  horse-flesh;  but  he  wasn't  going  to 
acknowledge  it. 

*  It  never  does  to  count  upon  anything  in  the 
glorious  uncertainty  of  racing,'  he  answered  with  a 
bounce,  swallowing  his  disappointment  in  that  resigned 
spirit  which  is  born  of  a  confident  belief  that  your 
sister,  after  all,  will  have  in  the  end  to  make  good  the 
deficit.  *  Though,  to  be  sure,  I  was  in  need  of  it ;  for 
I've  asked  Florrie  Clarke  and  her  mother  to  run  round 
to  the  Gaiety  for  an  hour  with  me  this  evening ;  and 
I  can  tell  you  it  comes  heavy  on  a  fellow,  and  no  mis- 
take, to  settle  for  the  grub  for  Florrie's  mother  !  She 
is  a  dab  at  lobster  salad !' 

*  Then,  you're  taking  them  to  supper  afterwards  !* 
Charlie  inquired  with  admiration.  One  young  fool 
invariably  admires  another  for  his  courage  and  nobility 
in  spending  the  money  he  hasn't  got,  to  somebody 
else's  final  discomfort  and  detriment. 

Beginald  nodded  a  careless  assent. 


•  I 


A  DIGRESSIOr^ 


85 


*To  Romano's,*  ho  answered,  with  justifiahle  pride 
in  the  background  of  his  tone.  '  When  I  do  the  thing 
at  all,  I  like  to  do  it  properly  ;  and  Florrie's  the  sort 
of  girl,  don't  you  know,  who's  accustomed  to  see 
things  done  in  the  very  best  style ;  so  I  mean  to  go 
it.' 

'What  a  fellow  you  are!'  Charlie  Owen  exclaimed 
with  heart-felt  admiration.  *  After  a  knock-down  blow 
like  this,  that  would  d'shearten  most  chappies !' 

Mr.  Reginald  smiled  a  deprecatory  smile  of  modest 
self  approval. 

'  Well,  I  flatter  myself  1  am  a  bit  of  a  philosopher,' 
he  admitted  with  candour,  like  one  who  glides  lightly 
over  his  own  acknowledged  merits.  '  Why  don't  you 
come  too  ?    There'd  be  room  in  my  box  for  you.* 

*  Does  it  run  to  a  box,  then  ?'  Charlie  Owen  asked, 
open-eyed. 

And  Reggie  answered,  with  an  expansive  wave  of 
his  neatly-gloved  hand : 

*  Do  you  suppose  I'd  ask  Florrie  and  her  mother  to 
go  in  the  pit?  I  imagine  I  know  how  to  do  the  thing 
like  a  gentleman.' 

'Well,  of  course,  if  you've  got  a  box,'  Charlie 
assented  with  alacrity, '  one  more  or  less  doesn't  count. 
But  still — there's  the  supper  !' 

Mr.  Reginald  dismissed  the  sordid  suggestion  with 
another  dainty  wave  of  his  well-gloved  left, 

'When  a  gentleman  asks  another  gejitleman  to  sup 
with  him,'  he  observed  with  sententious  dignity,  'it 
isn't  usual  for  his  guest  to  make  inquiries  beforehand 
as  to  the  cost  of  the  entertainment.'  After  which 
noble  rebuke,  Charlie  Owen  felt  it  would  be  positive 
bad  manners  not  to  accept  with  effusion  ;  and  was  lost 
in  wonder,  delight,  and  awe — as  Reggie  intended  he 


''%s< 


86 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


P-.  s*^ 


4>       "^ 


should  be — at  the  magnanimity  of  n  chappie  who, 
after  a  loss  like  that,  could  immediately  launch  out 
into  fresh  extravagance  by  inviting  a  friend  to  a  quite 
unnecessary  arid  expensive  banquet.  "What  a  splendid 
creature  the  fast  young  man  really  is,  after  all !  and 
how  nobly  he  dispenses  unlimited  hospitality  to  all 
and  sundry  on  his  relations'  money ! 

So  that  evening  at  eight  saw  Mr.  Eeginald  Hessle- 
grave  in  full  evening  dress  and  a  neat  hired  brougham, 
stopping  at  the  door  of  the  Gaiety  Theatre  to  deposit 
Mrs.  Clarke  and  her  daughter  Florrie.  The  party,  to 
be  sure,  was  nothing  if  not  correct ;  for  mamma  was 
there  to  ensure  the  utmost  proprieties ;  and  Miss 
Florrie  herself,  who  was  a  well-conducted  young  lady, 
had  no  idea  of  doing  anything  more  decided  than 
accepting  a  box  for  nothing  as  affection's  gift  from 
the  devoted  Keggie.  Miss  Florrie' s  papa  was  an 
eminently  respectable  West-end  money-lender;  and 
Miss  Florrie  and  her  mamma  were  practically  used,  in 
the  way  of  business,  partly  as  decoy  ducks  for  unwary 
youth,  and  partly  as  a  means  of  recovering  at  once,  in 
presents  and  entertainments,  a  portion  of  the  money 
advanced  by  papa  on  those  familiar  philanthropic 
principles  of  *  note- of -hand  at  sight,  without  inquiry, 
and  no  security,*  which  so  often  rouse  one's  profound 
esteem  and  wonder  in  the  advertisement  columns  of 
the  daily  papers.  Unfortunately,  however,  it  is  found, 
for  the  most  part,  in  this  hard  business  world  of  ours, 
that  philanthropy  like  this  can  only  be  made  to  pay 
on  the  somewhat  exorbitant  terms  of  sixty  per  cent., 
deducted  beforehand.  But  Mr.  Eeginald,  as  it 
happened,  was  far  too  small  game  for  either  Miss 
Florrie  or  her  papa  to  fly  at ;  his  friendship  for  the 
young  lady  was  distinctly  a  plawonio  one.     She  and 


wmmmm 


A  DIGRESSION 


87 


her  mamma  used  him  merely  as  an  amiable  young 
fool  who  could  fill  in  the  odd  evenings  between  more 
serious  engagements,  when  papa's  best  clients  took 
her  to  the  opera  with  mamma,  and  presented  her  with 
a  brooch  or  an  amethyst  bracelet  out  of  the  forty  per 
cent,  which  alone  remained  to  them  from  papa's 
munificence.    Not  that  Miss  Florrie's  conduct  was 
ever  anything  but  the  pink  of  propriety ;  with  a  con- 
nection like  papa's,  it  was  always  on  the  cards  that 
she  might  end  (with  good  luck)  by  becoming  *  my  lady ' 
in  lieu  of  accumulated  interest  on  bills  renewed ;  and 
was  it  likely  that  Miss  Florrie  ivas  going  to  fling  away 
a  first-rate    chance  in  life    like    that    by  ill-timed 
entanglements  with  a  penniless  clerk  in  a  stockbroker's 
office?     Miss  Florrie  thought  not:   she   knew  her 
market  worth  too  well  for  such  folly ;  she  might  flirt, 
but  she  perfectly  understood  where  to  stop  flirtation ; 
meanvvhile,  she  found  Mr.  Keginald  Hesslegrave  an 
agreeable  and  harmless  companion,  and  an  excellent 
wedge  of  an  unobtrusive  sort  for  attacking  the  narrow 
opening  into  certain  grades  of  society.    It  'looks  well' 
to  be  seen  about  with  mamma  in  the  company  of  an 
excellently  connected  young  man  of  no  means  at  all ; 
people  can  never  accuse  you,  then,  of  unmitigated 
fortune-hunting. 

Miss  Florrie  and  her  mamma  were  most  charming 
that  evening.  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  herself  would  have 
been  forced  to  admit  they  were  really  most  charming. 
The  mamma  was  as  well  dressed  as  could  reasonably 
be  expected — that  is  to  say,  not  much  more  over- 
dressed than  in  the  nature  of  things  a  money-lender's 
wife  must  be;  and  her  diamonds,  Charlie  Owen 
remarkeci  with  deUght,  were  greatly  noted  and  com- 
mented upon  by  feminine  occupants  of  neighbouring 


ad 


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boxes.  As  for  Keginald  Hesslegrave,  he  felt  the 
evening  was  what  he  would  himself  have  described 
as  *a  gigantic  success.'  'It's  all  going  off  very  well,* 
he  observed  with  nervous  pride  to  Charlie  Owen  as 
they  paced  the  corridor,  cigarette  in  mouth,  during 
the  interval  between  the  acts. 

And  Charlie  Owen,  patting  his  back,  made  answer 
emphatically : 

'  Going  off  very  well,  man !  "Why,  it's  a  thundering 
triumph !  What  a  fellow  you  are  to  be  sure  !  Ices  in 
the  box  and  everything  !  Clinking !  simply  clinking ! 
The  eldest  son  of  a  duke  couldn't  have  done  the  thing 
better.  It's  made  a  distinct  impression,  on  the  Clarkes, 
I  can  tell  you.* 

*  You  think  so  ?*  Eeggie  asked,  with  a  proud  flush 
of  satisfaction. 

*  Think  so  ?'  Charlie  repeated  once  more.  *  Why,  I 
can  see  it  with  half  a  glance.  Florrie's  gone  on  you, 
that's  where  it  is.  Visibly  to  the  naked  eye,  that 
girl's  clean  gone  on  you !' 

Mr.  Eeginald  returned  to  the  box  feeling  half  an 
inch  taller.  He  knew  himself  a  lady-killer.  And  he 
noticed  with  pride  that  Miss  Florrie  and  her  mj,n  ma 
were  on  terms  of  bowing  acquaintance  with  a  great 
many  people  in  the  stalls  and  dress  circle ;  the  very 
best  people ;  gentlemen  for  the  most  part,  it  is  true, 
but  still,  a  sprinkling  o'  ladies,  including  among  them 
Mrs.  Algy  Redburn,  wl.o  ought  by  rights  to  be  Lady 
Axminster.  And  though  the  ladies  returned  Miss 
Florrie's  bows  and  smiles  with  a  tinge  of  coldness, 
and  seemed  disinclined  to  catch  the  eagle  eye  of  her 
mamma — who  was  a  stoutish  matron  of  a  certain  age 
and  uncertain  waist — it  was  an  undeniable  fact  that 
those  who  did  catch  it  were  for  the  most  part  women 


jpplpipppi^^ 


A  t)IGRESSl01^ 


% 


of  title  and  of  social  distinction,  in  the  fastest  set :  so 
that  Mr.  Keginald  felt  himself  in  excellent  society. 

As  they  were  leaving  the  theatre,  while  Mrs.  Clarke 
and  Florrie  went  off  in  search  of  their  wraps  from  the 
ladies'  cloak-room,  Eeggie  drew  Charlie  Owen  mys- 
teriously aside  for  a  moment. 

*  Look  here,  old  fellow,'  he  said  coaxingly,  in  a 
whispered  undertone,  button-holing  his  friend  as  he 
spoke ;  *  you're  coming  on  to  supper  with  us.  Could 
you  manage  to  lend  me  a  couple  of  sovereigns  for  a 
day  or  two  ?' 

Charlie  Owen  looked  glum.  He  pursed  his  under 
lip.    Like  Bardolph's  tailor,  he  liked  not  the  security. 

*  "What's  it  for  ?'  he  asked  dubiously. 
Eeggie  made  a  clean  breast  of  it. 

*  Well,  the  brougham  and  things  have  run  into  a 
little  more  than  I  expected,'  he  answered  with  a  forced 
smile ;  *and  of  course  we  must  open  a  bottle  of  cham; 
and  if  Mrs.  Clarke  wanis  a  second — she's  a  fish  at 
fizz,  I  know— it'd  be  awkward,  don't  you  see,  if  I 
hadn't  quite  cash  enough  to  pay  the  waiter.* 

*It  would  so,'  Charlie  responded,  screwing  up  a 
sympathetic  but  exceedingly  doubtful  face. 

*  Do  you  happen  to  have  a  couple  of  quid  about 
fovL  ?'  Eeggie  demanded  once  more,  with  an  anxious 
air. 

Charlie  Owen  melted. 

*  Well,  I  have,'  he  answered  slo-^^  *  But  mind 
you,  I  shall  want  them  on  Saturday  without  fail,  to 
pay  my  landlady.  She's  a  demon  for  her  rent. 
Eaises  blazes  if  if  runs  on.  Will  insist  on  it  weekly. 
Can  you  promise  me  faithfully  to  let  me  have  the  oof 
back  by  Saturday  ?'  ■ " ' : 

Eeggie  drew  a  sigh  of  relief. 


9d 


AT  MARKET  VALVE 


'  Honour  bright !'  he  answered,  clutching  hard  at 
the  straw.  *  It's  all  square,  I  assure  you.  I've 
remittances  CDming.' 

'Where  from?'  Charlie  continued,  not  wishing  to 
be  hard,  but  still  anxious  for  *  the  collateral,*  as 
Florrie's  pe-     .  -^'ould  have  put  it. 

'  Oh,  I've  ttuographed  to-day  to  my  people  at  Venice,' 
liop:gie  responded  airily.  But  '  my  people '  of  course 
was  a  euphemism  for  *  my  sister.' 

'  And  got  an  answer  ?'  Charlie  insisted.  He  didn't 
want  to  seem  mean,  but  business  is  business,  and  he 
d(iKired  to  know  on  what  expectations  precisely  he  was 
risking  his  money. 

'Yes;  here  it  is,'  Eeggie  replied,  drawing  it  out, 
somewhat  sheep'shly,  from  the  recesses  of  his  pocket. 
He  didn't  like  to  show-  it,  of  course ;  but  he  saw  too 
well  that  on  no  other  terms  could  he  be  spared  the 
eternal  disgrace  of  having  to  refuse  Florrie  Clarke's 
mamma  a  second  bottle  of  Veuve  Clicquot,  should  she 
choose  to  demand  it.    :    . 

Charlie  ran  his  eye  over  the  telegram.  It  was  short 
but  satisfactory. 

'Entirely  disapprove.  Am  sending  the  money. 
This  is  the  last  time.     Lemember. — Kathleen.* 


*  She  always  says  that,'  Mr.  Keginald  interposed  in 
an  apologetic  undertone. 

'Oh,  dear  jes;  I  know;  it's  a  way  they  have,' 
Charlie  responded  with  a  tolerant  smile,  as  one  who 
was  well  acquainted  with  the  strange  fads  of  one's 
people.     '  How  much  did  you  ask  her  for  ?* 

*  A  tenner,'  Mr.  Reginald  responded. 

Charlie  Owen  drew  the  coins  with  slow  deliberation 


ipllllllplp^lip^v^ 


A  DIGRESSION 


91 


from  his  dress  waistcoat  pocket.  '  Well,  this  is  a  debt  of 
honour/  he  said  in  a  solemn  voice,  handing  them  over 
impressively.  *  You'll  pay  me  off,  of  course,  before 
you  waste  any  money  on  paying  bills  or  landlords  and 
such-like.' 

Eeggie  slipped  the  two  sovereigns  into  his  trousers- 
pocket  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  '  You  are  a  brick, 
Charlie  !'  he  exclaimed,  turning  away  quite  happy, 
and  prepared,  as  is  the  manner  of  such  young  gentle- 
men in  general,  to  spend  the  whole  sum  recklessly  at 
a  single  burst  on  whatever  first  offered,  now  he  was 
relieved  for  the  moment  from  his  temporary  em- 
barrassment. For  it  is  the  way  of  your  Keggies  to 
treat  a  loan  as  so  much  cash  in  hand,  dropped  down 
from  heaven,  and  to  disburse  it  freely  on  the  nearest 
recipient  in  light-hearted  anticipation  of  the  next 
emergency. 

The  supper  was  universally  acknowledged '  to  be  the 
success  of  the  evening.  It  often  is,  in  fact,  where  the 
allowance  of  Veuve  Clicquot  is  sufficiently  unstinted. 
Mrs.  Clarke  was  most  affable,  most  increasingly 
affable ;  and  as  to  Miss  Florrie,  a  pretty  little  round- 
faced  ingdnue,  with  a  vast  crop  of  crisp  black  hair,  cut 
short  and  curled,  she  was  delightful  company.  It 
was  her  role  in  life  to  flirt ;  and  she  did  it  for  the  love 
of  it.  Keginald  Hesslegrave  was  a  distijictly  good- 
looking  young  man,  very  well  connected,  and  she 
really  liked  him.  Not,  of  course,  that  she  would  ever 
for  a  moment  have  dreamed  of  throwing  herself  away 
for  life  on  a  man  without  the  means  to  keep  a  carriage; 
but  Miss  Florrie  was  one  of  those  modern  young  ladies 
who  sternly  dissociate  their  personal  likes  and  dislikes 
from  their  matrimonial  schemes  ;  and  as  a  person  to 
Bup  with,  to  talk  to,  and  to  flirt  with,  she  really  liked 


m 


92 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


Master  Eeggie — nay,  more,  she  admired  him.  For 
he  knew  how  to  *  go  it ';  and  ability  for  *  going  it '  was 
in  Miss  Florrie's  eyes  the  prince  of  the  virtues.  It 
was  the  one  that  enabled  a  man,  however  poor  in 
reality,  to  give  her  the  greatest  amount  of  what  she 
lived  for — amusement.  So  Florrie  flooded  Eeggie 
with  the  light  of  her  round  black  eyes  till  he  was  fairly 
intoxicated  with  her.  She  played  her  crisp  curls  at 
him  with  considerable  effect,  and  was  charmed  when 
he  succumbed  to  them.  'Twas  a  pity  he  wasn't  the 
heir  to  a  hundred  thousand  pounds.  If  he  had  been, 
Miss  Florrie  thought,  she  might  have  got  papa  to 
discount  it  offhand  on  post-obits,  and  have  really 
settled  down  to  a  quiet  life  of  balls  and  theatres  in  his 
agreeable  society. 

So  much  smitten  was  Eeggie,  ir.deed,  that  before 
the  end  of  the  evening,  under  the  expansive  influence 
of  tliat  excellent  Veuve  Clicquot,  he  remarked  chaffingly 
to  Florrie,  at  a  moment  when  Mrs.  Clarke  was  deep 
in  talk  with  Charlie  Owen :  '  I  tell  you  what  it  is.  Miss 
Clarke — or  rather  Florrie — I  shall  call  you  Florrie — 
some  day,  you  and  I  will  have  to  make  a  match  of  it !' 

Miss  Florrie  did  not  resent  this  somewhat  abrupt 
and  inartistic  method  of  broaching  an  important  and 
usually  serious  subject.  On  the  contrary,  being  an 
easy-going  soul,  she  accepted  it  as  a  natural  compli- 
ment to  her  charms,  and  smiled  at  it  good-humouredly. 
But  she  answered  none  the  less,  with  a  toss  of  the 
crisp  black  curls:  'Well,  if  we're  ever  to  do  that,  Mr. 
Hesslegrave,  you  mast  find  the  wherewithal  first ;  for 
1  can  tell  you  I  want  a  carriage  and  a  yacht  and  a 
house-boat.  The  man  for  my  heart  is  the  man  with 
a  house-boat.  As  soon  as  you're  in  a  position  to  set 
uj)  a  house-boat,  you  may  invite  me  to  share  it  with 


mm- 


A  DIGRESSION 


93 


you.    And  then  * — she  looked  at  him  archly  with  a 
witching  smile — *  I  may  consider  my.  answer.* 

She  was  a  taking  little  thing  ! — there  was  no  deny- 
ing it.  *  Very  bad  style,'  so  the  ladies  in  the  stalls 
remarked  to  one  another,  as  they  scanned  her  through 
their  opera  -  glasses ;  'but  awfully  taking!*  And 
Beginald  Hesslegrave  found  her  so.  From  that 
moment  forth,  it  became  his  favourite  day-dream  that 
he  had  made  a  large  fortune  at  a  single  stroke  (on  tlio 
turf,  of  course),  and  married  the  owner  of  the  crisp 
black  curls.  So  deep-rooted  did  this  ideal  become  to 
him,  indeed,  that  he  set  to  work  at  once  to  secure  the 
large  fortune.  And  how  ?  By  working  hard  day  and 
night,  and  saving  and  inveoting  ?  Oh  dear  me,  no ! 
Such  bourgeois  methods  are  not  for  the  likes  of  Mr. 
Reginald  Hesslegrave,  who  prided  himself  upon  being 
a  perfect  gentleman.  By  risking  Kathleen's  hard- 
earned  money  on  the  Derby  favourite,  and  accepting 
*  tips '  as  to  a  '  dark  horse '  fbr  the  Leger  1 


CHAPTER  rS. 


BY  THE   BLUE   ADRIATIC. 

April  in  Venice,  young  ladies  aver,  is  *  just  too  lovely 
for  anything.*  And  Rufus  Mortimer  utilized  one  of  its 
just  too  lovely  days  for  his  long-deferred  project  of  a 
picnic  to  the  Li^o. 

Do  you  know  the  Lido?  'Tis  that  long  natural 
bulwark,  *  the  bank  of  sand  which  breaks  the  flow  of 
Adria  towards  Venice,*  as  Shelley  calls  it.  It  stretches 
for  miles  and  miles  in  a  narrow  belt  along  the  mouth 
of  the  lagoons ;  on  one  side  lies  the  ocean,  and  on  one 


i- 


94 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


i  "<'■ 


the  shallow  pool  of  mudhanks  and  canals.  This  is 
the  only  place  near  Venice,  indeed,  where  a  horse  can 
find  foothold  ;  and  on  that  account,  as  well  as  for  the 
sake  of  the  surf-bathing,  it  is  a  favourite  resort  of 
Venetians  and  visitors  in  spring  and  summer.  The 
side  towards  the  lagoon  rises  high  and  dry,  in  a  sort 
of  native  breakwater,  like  the  lofty  Chesil  Beach  that 
similarly  cuts  off  the  English  Channel  from  the 
shallow  expanse  of  the  Fleet  in  Dorsetshire ;  its 
opposite  front  descends  in  a  gentle  slope  to  the  level 
of  the  Adriatic,  and  receives  on  its  wrinkled  face  the 
thunderous  billows  of  that  uncertain  main,  Horace's 
'turbulent  Hadria.*  Hither,  then,  Bufus  Mortimer 
brought  his  guests  and  friends  one  bright  April  morn- 
ing, when  the  treacherous  sea  was  sleeping  calmly 
like  a  child,  and  no  breath  of  wind  from  the  Dalma- 
tian hills  disturbed  the  tranquil  rest  of  its  glassy 
bosom. 

They  crossed  over  partljr  in  Mortimer's  own  private 
gondola,  partly  in  a  hired  barca — a  hencoop,  as  Arnold 
Willoughby  irreverently  called  it — from  the  steps  of 
the  Molo.  As  they  passed  out  of  the  harbour,  the 
view  behind  them  rose  even  lovelier  than  usual.  That 
is  the  way  to  see  Venice  ;  its  front-door  is  the  sea ;  it 
breaks  upon  one  full  face  as  one  looks  at  it  from  the 
Lido.  We  who  arrive  at  it  nowadays  by  the  long  and 
tedious  railway  embankment  over  the  shallow  lagoon 
hardlj;  realize  that  we  are  entering  the  city  of  the 
Doges  by  its  back-door.  We  come  first  upon  the 
slums,  the  purlieus,  the  Ghetto.  But  the  visitor  who 
approaches  the  Bride  of  the  Adriatic  for  the  first  time 
by  sea  from  Trieste  or  Alexandria  sees  it  as  its  makers 
and  adorners  intended  he  should  see  it.  As  he  draws 
nigh  shore,  the  great  buildings  by  the  water's  edge 


V  I 


BY  THE  BLUE  ADRIATIC 


95 


rise  one  after  another  before  his  enchanted  eyes.  He 
Bees  Fortuna  on  her  golden  ball  above  the  Dogana  di 
Mare ;  he  sees  the  Doges*  Palace  with  its  arcade  and 
its  loggia  ;  he  sees  the  clustered  cupolas  and  spires  of 
St.  Mark's ;  he  sees  the  quaint  volutes  and  swelling 
domes  of  Santa  Maria  della  Salute.  Then,  as  he 
nears  the  Molo,  the  vast  panorama  of  beauty  bursts 
upon  him  at  once  in  all  its  detail— the  Bridge  of  Sighs, 
the  famed  Lion  Column,  St.  Theodore  on  his  crocodile, 
St.  Mark  on  his  airy  pinnacle,  the  Piazzetta,  the 
Piazza,  the  Campanile,  the  Clock  Tower.  He  lands 
by  the  marble  steps,  and  finds  himself  face  to  face 
with  the  gorgeous  pilasters  of  Sansovino's  library,  the 
fa9ade  of  the  great  church,  the  porphyry  statues,  the 
gold  and  alabaster,  the  blaze  of  mosaics,  the  lavish 
waste  of  sculpture.  With  a  whirling  head,  he  walks 
on  through  it  all,  amazed,  conscious  of  nothing  else 
save  a  phantasmagoria  of  glory,  and  thanking  heaven 
in  his  heart  that  at  last  he  has  seen  Venice. 

This  was  the  view  upon  which  the  occupants  of 
Rufus  Mortimer's  gondola  looked  back  with  delighted 
eyes  that  April  morning.  But  this  was  not  all. 
Behind  and  above  it  all,  the  snow-capped  chain  of  the 
Tyrolese  Alps  and  the  hills  of  Cadore  rose  fairy-like 
in  a  semicircle.  Their  pencilled  hollows  showed 
purple :  their  peaks  gleamed  like  crystal  in  the  morn- 
ing sun.  Cloudless  and  clear,  every  glen  and  crag 
pinked  out  by  the  searching  rays,  they  stood  silhouetted 
in  pure  white  against  the  solid  blue  sky  of  Italy.  In 
front  of  them,  St.  Mark's  and  the  Campanile  were 
outlined  in  dark  hues.  'Twas  a  sight  to  rejoice  a 
painter's  eyes.  Arnold  Willoughby  and  Kathleen 
Hesslegrave  sat  entranced  as  they  looked  at  it. 

Nothing  rouses  the  emotione^l  sid^   ql  ^   man'^ 


I'^'^vfiiBPiPiTSmiiiivnmiipii 


p  y 


96  AT  MARKET  VALUE 

nature  more  vividly  than  to  gaze  at  beautiful  thinga 
with  a  beautiful  woman.  Arnold  Willoughby  sat  by 
Kathleen's  side  and  drank  it  all  in  delighted.  He 
half  made  up  his  mind  to  ask  her  that  very  day 
whether,  if  he  ever  could  succeed  in  his  profession, 
she  would  be  willing  to  link  her  life  with  a  poor 
marine  painter's. 

He  didn't  mean  to  make  her  Lady  Axminster.  That 
was  far  from  his  mind.  He  would  not  have  cared  for 
those  '  whose  mean  ambition  aims  at  palaces  and  titled 
names,*  as  George  Meredith  has  phrased  it.  But  he 
wanted  to  make  her  Mrs.  Arnold  Willoughby. 

As  they  crossed  over  to  the  Lido,  he  was  full  of  a 
new  discovery  he  had  made  a  few  days  before.  A 
curious  incident  had  happened  to  him.  In  hunthig 
among  a  bundle  of  papers  at  his  lodgings,  which  his 
landlady  had  bought  to  tie  up  half -kilos  of  rice  and 
macaroni,  he  had  come,  it  appeared,  upon  a  wonderful 
"  manuscript.  He  hardly  knew  himself  at  the  time  how 
important  this  manuscript  was  to  become  to  him  here- 
after ;  but  he  was  full  of  it,  all  the  same,  as  a  singular 
discovery. 

*  It's  written  in  Italian,'  he  said  to  Kathleen;  *  that's 
the  funny  part  of  it;  but  still,  it  seems,  it's  by  an 
English  sailor;  and  it's  immensely  interesting — a 
narrative  of  his  captivity  in  Spain  and  his  trial  by  the 
Inquisition,  for  standing  up  like  a  man  for  Her  Grace's 
claim  to  the  throne  of  England.* 

*  What's  the  date  of  it  ?'  Kathleen  asked,  not  know- 
ing or  not  catching  the  special  Elizabethan  tinge  of 
that  phrase,  Her  Grace,  instead  of  Her  Majesty. 

*  Oh,  Elizabeth;  of  course,*  Arnold  answered  lightly. 
'  Such  a  graphic  story !  And  the  queerest  part  of  it 
all  is,  it's  written  in  cipher/ 


i 


. 


By  THE  BLUE  ADRIATIC 


97 


*  Then  how  did  you  make  it  out  ?'  Kathleen  asked 
admiringly.  To  her  mind,  it  seemed  a  perfectly 
astonishing  feat  that  any  man  should  be  able  to 
decipher  such  a  thing  for  himself  by  mere  puzzling 
over  it. 

*"Why,  easily  enough,'  Arnold  answered  with  a 
smile  ;  *  for  happily  I  took  it  for  granted,  since  I  found 
it  in  Italy,  the  language  was  Italian ;  so  I  soon  spelt  it 
out.  Those  sixteenth-century  people  always  made  use 
of  the  most  simple  ciphers — almost  foolishly  simple. 
Any  child  could  read  them.' 

Kathleen  looked  up  at  him  with  profound  admira- 
tion. For  her  own  part,  she  couldn't  imagine  how  on 
earth  it  could  be  done.  '  How  wonderful !'  she  ex- 
claimed. '  You  must  show  it  to  me  some  day.  And 
it's  interesting,  is  it  ?    I  should  love  to  see  it.' 

*  Yes,  it's  interesting,'  Arnold  answered.  .  *  As  inter- 
esting as  a  novel.  A  perfect  romance.  Most  vivid 
and  amusing.  The  writer  was  a  man  named  John 
CoUingham  of  Norfolk,  the  owner  and  skipper  of  an 
English  barque;  he  was  taken  by  the  Spaniards  off 
Cape  Finisterre,  and  thrown  into  prison  for  six 
months  at  Cadiz.  Afterwards  he  escaped,  and  made 
his  way  to  Venice,  where  he  wrote  this  memorial  in 
cipher  to  the  Council  of  Ten,  whom  he  desired  to 
employ  him ;  but  what  became  of  him  in  the  end  I 
haven't  yet  got  to.  It  takes  some  time  to  decipher  the 
whole  of  it.' 

That  was  all,  for  the  moment.  More  important 
concerns  put  the  manuscript  afterwards  for  a  time  out 
of  Kathleen's  head ;  though  in  the  end  she  had  good 
reason  indeed  to  remember  it.  However,  just  then, 
as  soon  as  they  landed,  Rufus  Mortimer  hurried  hei 
9|f  ^0  admire  the  view  lyom  the  top  of  tli^  I^ido ;  aft4 


J?; 


''W^iippliippiiiiipppfi 


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m' 


he  took  excellent  care  she  should  have  no  other 
chance  that  day  of  private  conversation  with  Arnold 
Willoughhy. 

They  lunched  al  fresco  on  the  summit  of  the  great 
bank,  looking  down  on  the  sea  to  the  right,  and  the 
long  stretch  of  the  shallow  lagoon  to  the  loft,  with  the 
distant  towers  of  Venice  showing  up  with  all  their 
spires  in  the  middle  distance,  and  the  jagged  range  of 
snowy  Alps  gleaming  white  in  the  background.  As 
soon  as  they  had  finished,  Rufus  Mortimer  managed 
to  get  Kathleen  to  himself  for  a  quiet  stroll  along  the 
sea-beach.  The  sand  wj^s  hard  and  firm  and  strewn 
with  seaweed ;  here  and  \iheve  a  curled  sea-horse  lay 
tossed  up  by  the  tide;  and  innumerable  tiny  shells 
glistened  bright  like  pearls  on  the  line  of  high-water. 

Kathleen  felt  a  little  shy  with  him.  She  guessed 
what  was  coming.  But  she  pretended  to  ignore  it, 
and  began  in  her  most  conventional  society  tone : 

'  Have  you  heard  that  Canon  Valentine  and  his  wife 
are  coming  out  here  to  Venice  next  week  to  visit  us  ?' 

Mortimer  gazed  at  her  with  a  comic  little  look  of 
quizzical  surprise.  He  had  got  away  alone  with  her 
after  no  small  struggle,  and  he  meant  to  make  the 
best  of  this  solitary  opportunity. 

'  Have  I  heard  that  Canon  Valentine  and  his  wife 
are  coming  ?'  he  asked  with  a  sort  of  genial  satire  in 
his  voice.  *  Now,  do  you  think,  Miss  Hesslegrave,  I 
planned  this  picnic  to  the  Lido  to-day,  and  got  oif 
with  you  alone  here,  for  nothing  else  but  to  talk  about 
that  bore,  Canon  Valentine,  and  that  stick  of  a  wife  of 
his?' 

'I — I  really  don't  know,'  Kathleen  faltered  out 
demurely. 

Mortimer  ^azed  »t  h^x  har^t 


i 


BY  THE  DIUE  ADRIATIC 


W 


\ 


'  Yes,  you  do,'  he  answered  at  last,  after  a  long  deep 
pause.  *'  You  know  it  very  well.  You  know  you're 
playinfj  with  me.  That  isn't  what  I  want,  and  you 
can  see  it,  Miss  Hesslegrave.  You  can  guess  what  I've 
come  here  for.  You  can  guess  why  I've  brought  you 
away  all  alone  upon  the  sands.'  He  trembled  with 
emotion.  It  took  a  good  deal  to  work  Rufus  Mortimer 
up,  but  when  once  he  was  worked  up,  his  feelings  ran 
away  with  him.  He  quivered  visibly.  'Oh,  Mit^s 
Hesslegrave,'  he  cried,  gazing  wildly  at  her,  '  you 
must  have  seen  it  long  since.  You  can't  have  mis- 
taken it.  You  must  have  known  I  loved  you  !  I've 
as  good  as  told  you  so  over  and  over  again,  both  in 
London  and  here ;  but  never  till  to-day  have  I 
ventured  to  ask  you.  I  didn't  dare  to  ask,  because 
I  was  so  afraid  you'd  say  me  nay.  And  now  it  has 
come  to  this :  I  must  speak.  I  must.  I  can't  keep  it 
back  within  myself  any  longer.' 

Every  woman  is  flattered  by  a  man's  asking  for  her 
love,  even  when  she  means  to  say  *  No '  outright  to  him  ; 
and  it  was  somethmg  for  Kathleen  to  have  made  a 
conquest  like  this  of  the  American  millionaire,  whom 
every  girl  in  Venice  was  eager  to  be  introduced  to. 
She  felt  it  as  such.  Yet  she  drew  back,  all  tremu- 
lous. 

'Please  don't,  Mr.  Mortimer,'  she  pleaded,  as  the 
American  tried  hard  to  seize  her  vacant  hand.  *  I — 
I  wish  you  wouldn't.  I  know  you're  very  kind ;  but 
— I  don't  want  you  to  take  it.* 

*  Why  not  ?'  Mortimer  asked,  drawing  back  a  little 
space  and  gazing  at  her  earnestly. 

'  Because,*  Kathleen  answered,  finding  it  hard 
indeed  so  to  phrase  her  feelings  as  not  unnecessarily 
to  hurt  the  young  man*s,  *I  like  you  very  much — 


Piwpiilpippi 


too 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


as  a  friend,  that  is  to  say — but  I  could  never  love 
you/ 

'You  thought  you  could  once/  Mortimer  replied, 
with  a  face  of  real  misery.  *  I  could  see  you  thought 
it  once.  In  Venice  here,  last  year,  you  almost  hesi- 
tated ;  and  if  your  mother  hadn't  shown  herself  so 
anxious  to  push  my  interest  with  you,  I  really  believe 
you  would  have  said  **  Yes  "  then  to  me.  What  has  made 
the  difference  now  ?    You  must — you  must  tell  me.* 

*  I  hardly  know  myself,'  Kathleen  answered  truth- 
fully. 

*  Lut  I  must  hear  it,'  the  American  answered, 
placing  himself  in  front  of  her  in  an  eager  attitude. 
He  had  all  the  chivalrous  feeling  of  his  countrymen 
towards  women.  Eich  as  he  was,  he  felt,  and  rightly 
felt,  it  was  a  great  thing  to  ask  such  a  girl  as  Kathleen 
Hesslegrave  for  the  gift  of  her  heart ;  and  having 
wound  himself  up  to  make  Tvhat  for  him  was  that 
fatal  plunge,  he  must  know  the  worst  forthwith ;  ne 
must  learn  once  for  all  then  and  there  whether  or  not 
there  was  any  chance  left  for  him.  So  he  stood  with 
clasped  hands  repeating  ever  and  over  again :  *  You 
must  tell  me,  M'ss  Hesslegrave.  I  have  a  right  to 
imow.  The  feeling  I  bear  towards  you  gives  me  a 
claim  to  know  it.* 

*  I  can't  tell  myself,'  Kathleen  replied,  a  little 
falteringly,  for  his  earnestness  touched  her,  as  earnest- 
ness always  touches  women.  *  I  shall  always  like  you 
very  much,  Mr.  Mortimer,  but  I  can  never  love  you.' 

*  Do  you  love  somebody  else,  will  you  tell  me  that  ?' 
the  young  man  asked,  almost  fiercely. 

Kathleen  hesitated,  and  was  lost. 
*I— I   don't  know   myself,    Mr.    Mortimer/   she 
answered  feebly. 


A.i^^ 


BS'f'.V-'' :''.•''■ -I 


BY  THE  BLUE  ADRIATIC 


SOI 


Mortimer  drew  a  long  breath. 

*  Is  it  Willoughby  ?*  he  asked  at  last,  with  a  sudden 
turn  that  half  frightened  her. 

Kathleen  began  to  cry. 

*  Mr.  Mortimer,'  she  exclaimed,  *  you  have  no  right 
to  try  to  extort  from  me  a  secret  I  have  never  told  yet 
to  anybody — hardly  even  to  myself.  Mr.  Willoughby 
is  nothing  more  than  a  friend  and  a  companion  to 
me.' 

But  the  American  read  her  meaning  through  her 
words,  for  all  that.  *  Willoughby  !'  he  cried — *  Wil- 
loughby! It's  Willoughby  who  has  supplanted  me. 
I  was  half  afraid  of  this.*  He  paused  irresolute  for  a 
moment.  Then  he  went  on  much  lower:  *I  ou  ht 
to  hate  him  for  this.  Miss  Hesslegrave  ;  but  somehow 
I  don't.  Perhaps  it  isn't  in  my  blood.  But  I  like  him 
and  admire  him.  I  admire  his  courage.  I  admire 
your  courage  for  liking  him.  The  worst  of  it  is,  I 
admire  you,  too,  for  having  the  simple  honesty  to 
prefer  him  to  me — under  all  the  circumstances.  I 
know  you  are  doing  right ;  I  can't  help  admiring  it. 
That  penniless  man  against  American  millions  !  But 
j^ou  have  left  my  heart  poor.  Oh,  so  poor !  so  poor  ! 
There  was  one  thing  in  life  upon  which  I  had  fixed 
it,  and  you  have  given  that  to  Willoughby;  and. 
Miss  Hesslegrave,  I  can't  even  quarrel  with  you  for 
.  giving  it!* 

Kathleen  leant  forward  towards  him  anxiously. 
*  Oh,  for  heaven's  sake,*  she  cried,  clasping  her  hands, 
'don't  betray  me,  Mr.  Mortimer!  I  have  never 
breathed  a  single  word  of  this  to  him,  nor  he  to  me. 
It  was  uncanny  of  you  to  find  it  out.  I  ask  you,  as  a 
woman,  keep  it^-keep  it  sacred,  for  my  sake,  I  beg  of 
your 


103 


"  AT  MARKET  VALUE 


Mortimer  looked  at  her  with  the  intensest  affection 
in  his  eyes.  He  spoke  the  plain  truth  ;  that  woman 
was  the  one  ohject  in  life  on  which  he  had  set  his 
heart ;  and  without  her,  his  wealth  was  as  worthless 
dross  to  him. 

'Why,  Miss  Hesslegrave,'  he  answered,  *  what  do 
you  think  I  am  made  of  ?  Do  you  think  I  could 
surprise  a  woman's  secret  like  that,  and  not  keep  it 
more  sacred  than  anything  else  on  earth  ?  You  must 
have  formed  indeed  a  very  low  opinion  of  me.  I  can 
use  this  knowledge  hut  for  one  aim  and  end — to  do 
what  I  can  towards  making  Willoughby's  path  in  life 
a  little  smoother  and  easier  for  him.  I  wished  to  do 
so  for  his  own  sake  before ;  I  shall  wish  it  a  thousand 
times  more  for  your  sake  in  future.* 

Tears  stood  in  his  eyes.  He  spoke  earnestly, 
seriously.  He  was  one  of  those  rare  men  who  rise  far 
above  jealousy.  Kathleen  was  touched  by  his  attitude 
— what  woman  would  not  have  been  ?  For  a  moment 
she  half  regretted  she  could  not  answer  him  *  Yes.'  He 
was  so  genuinely  in  love,  so  deeply  and  honestly 
grieved  at  her  inability  to  love  him.  Of  her  owri 
accord  she  took  his  hand. 

*  Mr.  Mortimer,'  she  said  truthfully,  *  I  like  you 
better  this  minute  than  I  have  ever  liked  you.  You 
have  spoken  like  a  friend ;  you  have  spoken  like  a 
gentleman.  Few  men  at  such  a  moment  could  have 
spoken  as  you  have  done.  Believe  me,  indeed,  I  am 
deeply  grateful  for  it.* 

*  Thank  you,'  Mortimer  answered,  brushing  his  tears 
away  shamefacedly.  Americans  are  more  frank  about 
such  matters  than  we  self-restrained  Britons.  *  But,  oh, 
Miss  Hesslegrave,  after  all,  what  poor  comfort  that  is  to 
a  man  who  asks  your  love,  who  loves  you  devotedly  1* 


■■m>m 


m . 


^:™*^y^rr*^i^(^i/l^^7fy^'^^-^ 


M^tJ»-Bbw»i-£t•■.^i*J.■.;■;'^a«*Aa■^,^l.;^.»:r^.^i...,•!; 


1 


BY  THE  BLUE  ADRIATIC 


103 


*M 


' 


They  turned  with  one  accord,  and  wandered  back 
along  the  sands  in  silence  towards  the  rest  of  the 
party.  So  far  as  Eufus  Mortimer  was  concerned,  that 
picnic  had  been  a  dead  failure.  *Twas  with  an  effort 
that  he  managed  to  keep  up  conversation  the  rest  of 
the  afternoon  with  the  mammas  of  the  expedition. 
His  heart  had  received  a  very  heavy  blow,  and  he 
hardly  sought  to  conceal  it  from  Kathleen's  observant 
vision. 

Sad  that  in  this  world  what  is  one  man's  loss  is 
another  man's  gain.  Arnold  Willoughby,  seeing 
those  two  come  back  silent  from  their  stroll  along 
the  sands  together,  looked  hard  in  Kathleen's  face,  and 
then  in  Mortimer's — and  read  the  whole  history.  He 
felt  a  little  thrill  of  pleasure  course  through  his  spine 
like  a  chill.  *  Then  he  has  asked  her,'  Arnold  thought ; 
*  and  she — she  has  refused  him.  Dear  girl,  she  has 
refused  him  !  I  can  trust  her,  after  all.  She  prefers 
the  penniless  sailor  to  the  richest  man  this  day  in 
Venice!* 

It  is  always  so.  We  each  of  us  see  things  from  our 
own  point  of  view.  Any  other  man  would  have  taken 
it  in  the  same  way  as  Arnold  Willoughby.  But 
Kathleen  went  home  that  evening  very  heavy  at  heart 
for  her  American  lover.  He  was  so  kind  and  true,  so 
manly  and  generous,  she  felt  half  grieved  in  her  heart 
she  couldn't  have  said  *  Yes '  to  him. 


Ail- 


V  f 


wmmmmm 


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CHAPTEE  X. 


VISITORS   IN  TENICB. 


Canon  Valentine  stared  about  him  in  the  midst  of  the 
Piazza  with  a  stony  British  stare  of  complete  disappro- 
bation.    He  rejected  it  in  toto. 

*  So  this  is  modern  Venice !'  he  exclaimed,  with  the 
air  of  a  man  who  revisits  some  painful  scene  he  has 
known  in  its  better  days.  *  This  is  what  emancipated 
Italy  has  made  of  it !  Dear  me,  Mrs.  Hesslegrave, 
how  altered  it  is,  to  be  sure,  since  the  good  old  times 
of  the  Austrian  occupation  !' 

*Ah,  yes,*  Kathleen  interposed,  not  entering  into 
his  humour.  *  No  doubt  you  see  great  changes, 
Canon.  You  haven't  been  here  before  since  United 
Italy.  How  much  lovelier  it  must  look  to  you,  now 
it's  leally  and  truly  Italian!' 

The  Canon  gazed  at  her,  full  face,  in  the  blankest 
astonishment.  •'  "-  '       ^   ^ 

*  Quite  the  contrary,'  he  said  curtly.  *  I  see  very 
great  changes — but  they're  all  for  the  worse.  These 
pigeons,  for  example ;  they  were  always  a  nuisance ; 

.;ilying  about  under  one's  feet,  and  getting  in  one's  way 
at  every  twist  and  turn — but  there  are  ten  times  as 
many  of  them  now  as  there  ever  used  to  be.* 

*Why,  I  love  the  pigeons,*  Kathleen  cried,  all 
amazed.  '  They're  so  tame  and  familiar.  In  England, 
the  boys  would  throw  stones  at  them  and  frighten 
them ;  but  here,  under  the  shadow  of  St.  Mark's,  they 
seem  to  feel  as  if  they  belonged  to  the  place,  and  as  if 
man  was  a  friend  of  theirs.  Besides,  they're  so  cha- 
racteristic; and  they're  historically  interesting  too, 


I J 


*  c 


VISITORS  IN  VENICE 


105 


don't  you  know !  They're  said  to  be  the  descendants 
of  the  identical  birds  that  brought  Doge  Dandolo  good 
news  from  friends  on  shore,  which  enabled  him  to 
capture  Crete,  and  so  lay  the  foundations  of  the  Vene- 
tian Empire.    I  just  love  the  pigeons.' 

*I  dare  say  you  do,'  the  Canon  answered  testily; 
*  but  that's  no  reason  why  they  should  be  allowed  to 
stroll  about  under  people's  heels  as  they  walk  across 
the  Piazza.  In  the  good  old  Austrian  days,  I'm  sure, 
that  was  never  permitted.  Intolerable,  simply ! — And 
then  the  band !  What  very  inferior  music  ! — When 
the  Austrians  were  here,  you  remember,  Amelia,  we 
had  a  capital  bandmaster ;  and  everybody  used  to 
come  out  to  listen  to  his  German  tunes  in  the  evening. 
The  Square  was  always  gay  with  bright  uniforms 
then — such  beautiful  coats !  Austrian  hussar  coats, 
deep  braided  on  either  side,  and  flung  carelessly  open. 
The  officers  looked  splendid  by  the  tables  at  Florio's. 
Venice  was  Venice  in  those  days,  I  can  tell  you, 
before  all  this  nonsense  cropped  up  about  United 
Italy.* 

'But  what  could  be  lovelier,'  Kathleen  exclaimed, 
half  shocked  at  such  treason, '  than  the  Italian  officers 
in  their  picturesque  blue  cloaks — the  Bersaglieri  espe- 
cially? I  declare,  I  always  fall  quite  in  love  with 
them.* 

*  Very  likely,'  the  Canon  answered.  He  was  never 
surprised,  for  his  part,  at  any  aberration  of  feeling  on 
the  part  of  young  girls,  since  this  modern  education 
craze.  It  had  unsexed  women  for  him.  *But  the 
place  is  spoiled,  for  all  that.  You  should  have  seen  it 
at  its  best,  before  it  was  vulgarized.  Even  St.  Mark's 
is  gilded  and  furbished  up  now  out  of  all  recognition. 
It's  not  flt  to  look  at. — ^Amelia,  my  dear,  don't  yoa 


io5 


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agree  with  me,  the  place  was  far  more  picturesqud 
when  the  Austrians  had  it  ?' 

'  Oh,  very  much  more  picturesque  !'  Mrs.  Valentine 
echoed  dutifully.  She  was  a  meek-looking  old  lady, 
in  a  long  black  cloak,  absolutely  overborne  by  fifty 
years  of  the  Canon's  individuality,  and  she  would  have 
answered  the  exact  opposite  in  perfect  good  faith  if 
only  she  perceived  the  Canon  expected  it.  Irreverent 
young  men  in  their  cathedral  town  were  wont  to  speak 
of  her  familiarly  as  *  the  prophet's  donkey.* 

The  Canon  examined  critically  the  fa9ade  of  St. 
Mark's— that  glorious  composite  fa9ade,  of  no  par- 
ticular time  or  style  or  fashion,  which  Kathleeil 
admired  so  fervently,  with  its  fantastic  mixture  of  all 
elements  alike — Byzantine,  Oriental,  Eomanesque, 
Gothic,  Eenaissance.  *  Very  mixed  !'  the  Canon  mur- 
mured, holding  his  head  on  one  side — 'very  mixed 
indeed.  I  can't  say  I  care  for  it.  It's  so  low  and 
squat.    And  how  the  mosaics  disfigure  it !' 

In  answer  to  criticism  like  that,  poor  Kathleen  had 
nothing  to  say ;  so  she  wisely  held  her  tongue.  She 
knew  when  to  be  silent.  The  Canon  strolled  on,  with 
Mrs.  Hesslegrave  by  his  side,  past  Leopardo's  bronze 
sockets,  which  still  hold  aloft  the  great  flagstaffs  of  the 
Eepublic  in  front  of  the  marvellous  church ;  past  the 
corner  of  St.  Mark's  where  stand  the  square  pillars 
from  St.  Saba  at  Ftolemais ;  past  the  main  gate  of  the 
palace,  with  its  sculptured  design  of  Doge  Francesco 
Foscari,  in  cap  and  robes,  kneeling  in  submission 
before  the  lion  of  St.  Mark ;  past  the  noble  arcades 
and  loggias  of  the  Piazzetta;  past  the-  two  huge 
columns  in  the  seaward  square,  and  down  by  slow 
degrees  to  the  steps  of  the  Molo.  Kathleen  listened  in 
wonder,  half  incredulous,  to  his  criticisms  as  he  passed. 


mmrnm 


VISITORS  IN  VENICE 


107 


She  was  so  little  accustomed  herself  to  anything  save 
breathless  admiration  and  delight  at  the  glories  of 
Venice,  that  this  strange  attitude  of  cold  blame  seemed 
to  her  -well-nigh  unnatural.  To  think  that  any  man 
should  stand  unawed  before  the  very  faces  of  St. 
Mark  and  St.  Theodore  ! 

At  the  Molo  they  called  a  gondola,  and  glided  in  it 
slowly  down  the  Grand  Canal.  The  Canon  thought  it 
had  fallen  off  since  the  days  of  the  Austrians.  Half 
the  palaces  were  worse  kept,  and  the  other  half  were 
scraped  and  cleaned  and  redecorated  throughout  in 
the  most  ridiculous  Wardour  Street  fashion.  He 
couldn't  bear  to  see  Venice  Blundell-Mapled.  It  was 
all  quite  depr(  tng.  But  what 'astonished  Kathleen 
the  most  was  the  singular  fact  that,  after  passing  the 
bend  in  the  canal  by  the  Palazzo  Contarini,  the  Canon 
seemed  almost  entirely  to  forget  in  what  city  they 
were,  though  this  was  his  first  day  for  thirty  years  in 
the  sea-born  city,  and,  looking  no  longer  at  churches 
or  palaces,  began  to  gossip  about  the  people  he  had 
left  behind  him  hi  London.  His  world  went  with 
him.  They  might  have  been  in  Bond  Street  or  Rotten 
Row,  for  any  notice  he  took  of  the  Rialto  or  the 
C^  d'Oro.  He  glided  past  the  Fondaco  without  even 
a  single  word :  he  never  deigned  to  give  a  glance  to 
the  School  of  St.  Mark  or  the  tower  of  San  Zanipolo. 
To  Kathleen's  artistic  soul  it  was  all  a  strange  puzzle. 
She  couldn't  understand  it.  Had  the  man  no  eyes  in 
his  head  that  he  could  pass  those  glorious  arcades, 
those  exquisite  balconies,  without  even  looking  up  at 
them? 

*  And  you  were  going  to  tell  us  something  about  this 
Axminster  business,*  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  remarked  after 
p>  j)ause,  as  they  rf>ached  the  front;  of  the  Arsenal  oq. 


io8 


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their  circuitous  peregi'ination,  which  Kathleen  had 
arranged  so  as  to  take  in  at  one  round  all  the  principal 
buildings.  *  Poor  dear  Lady  Axminster !  Has  any- 
thing been  done  yet  about  this  affair  of  the  peerage  ?* 

*  Oh  dear  yes,'  the  Canon  replied,  brightening  up 
at  the  suggestion.  '  I  was  coming  to  that.  I  intended 
to  tell  }*ou  all  about  it.  Haven't  you  read  it  in  the 
papers  ?  We're  in  hopes  at  lasic  we're  really  going  to 
get  ii  definite  settlement.' 

*  That's  well,'  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  echoed  with  a 
sympathetic  smirk.  'What's  being  done  about  it 
now?  We  haven't  seen  a  paper  in  this  benighted 
place  for  weeks  and  weeks,  don't  you  know — except,  of 
course,  Galignani.  It's  really  quite  dreadful  how  one 
falls  behind  the  times  about  all  the  most  important 
and  interesting  things  that  are  going  on  in  England !' 

The  Canon  looked  big.  This  appeal  flattered  him. 
He  liked  to  feel  he  came  primed  with  news  about  the 
best  people.  *  Well,  we've  taken  the  thing  to  the 
House  of  Lords,'  he  said,  with  as  much  delight  as  if 
he  were  himself  the  appellant.  *  Poor  Algy  has 
claimed  the  peerage  on  the  ground  that  his  cousin 
Bertie  is  dead,  as  I  told  you.  We've  reduced  success 
to  a  practical  certainty.  The  Lords  will  adjudicate 
on  his  claim  in  a  week  or  two ;  but  it's  a  foregone  con- 
clusion. I'm  very  glad,  I  must  say,  for  Algy's  sake, 
and  for  his  wife's  too.  She's  a  nice  little  thing,  Mrs. 
Algy  Redburn !' 

'My  brother  knows  her  slightly,*  Kathleen  said, 
with  a  tolerant  smile,  '  and  seems  to  think  a  great 
deal  of  her.' 

*  Oh  yes ;  she's  a  "charming  woman,*  Mrs.  Hessle- 
grave  interposed — *  a  most  charming  woman.*  (Mrs. 
Ilesslegrav^  thought  all  peers  ^nd  peeresses,  actual  oy 


i 


VISITORS  IN  VENICE 


109 


prospective,  particularly  charming — even  more  charm- 
ing, indeed,  than  the  rest  of  the  people  in  the  best 
society.) 

The  Canon  took  no  notice,  however,  of  these  inter- 
jected remarks.  He  severely  ignored  them.  To  say 
the  truth,  he  regarded  the  entire  Axminster  connection 
as  his  own  private  property,  from  a  social  point  of 
view,  and  rather  resented  than  otherwise  the  im- 
pertinent suggestion  that  anyone  else  in  the  world 
could  have  anything  to  do  with  them.  *  Yes,  we've 
reduced  it  to  a  practical  certainty,'  he  went  on,  lean- 
ing back  in  his  place  in  the  gondola  and  staring  hard 
at  the  water.  *  The  crux  of  the  case  consisted,  of 
course,  in  the  difficulty  of  proving  that  the  man 
Douglas  Overton,  who  shipped  from  the  port  of 
London  in  the  Saucy  Sally — that  was  the  name  of  the 
vessel,  if  I  recollect  aright— for  Melbourne,  Australia, 
was  really  the  same  man  as  Albert  Ogilvie  Eedburn, 
seventh  Lord  Axminster.  And  it  was  precious  hard 
to  prove  satisfactorily,  I  can  tell  you  ;  but  Maria  has 
proved  it — proved  it  up  to  the  hilt.  Maria's  a  very 
clever  woman  of  the  world,  and  she  knows  how  to 
work  these  things  like  a  private  detective.  Her 
lawyer  said  to  her  in  my  hearing :  "  Nobody  but  you, 
Lady  Axminster,  would  ever  have  succeeded  in  pulling 
itiihrough ;  but  thanks  to  your  ability  and  energy  and 
acumen,  not  even  tne  House  of  Lords  can  have  the 
shadow  of  a  doubt  about  it."  And  the  House  of 
Lords,  you  may  take  your  affidavit,  will  doubt  any- 
thing any  mortal  on  earth  could  doubt,  to  keep  a 
claimant  out  of  a  peerage,  if  only  they  can  manage 
it.' 

'  But  you  think  it's  quite  safe  now  ?'  Mrs.  Hessle- 
v^rave  Qskecl  with  interest.    Anything  that  referred  to 


ip« 


mmmmfmmil&^Wf'^^ 


110 


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a  peer  of  the  realm  had  for  her  mind  a  perfectly  en- 
thralling attraction. 

*  Oh  dear  yes,  quite  safe.  Not  a  doubt  in  the 
world  of  it.  You  see-,  we've  established,  in  the  first 
l)lace,  the  fact  that  the  man  Douglas  Overton  really 
u'as  Bertie  Redburn,  which  is  always  something.  And 
we've  established  in  the  second  place  the  complemen- 
tary fact  that  the  Saucy  Sally,  from  London  for 
Melbourne,  went  ashore  on  some  wretched  island 
nobody  ever  heard  of  in  the  Indian  Ocean,  and  that 
all  souls  on  board  perished — including,  of  course,  the 
man  Douglas  Overton,  who  is  Bertie  Redburn,  who  is 
the  late  Lord  Axminster.  A  child  can  see  it — let  alone 
the  Privilege  Committee.* 

'  I'm  glad  it's  going  to  be  settled,*  Mrs.  Hesslegrave 
remarked  with  unction.  '  It's  such  a  dreadful  thing 
for  poor  Mr.  Algernon  Redburn  to  be  kept  so  long, 
through  no  fault  of  his  own,  out  of  the  money  and 
title.' 

*  Oh,  dreadful,'  the  Canon  assented — 'dreadful, 
dreadful,  dreadful !  But  there,  poor  Bertie  never  had 
any  conscience !  It  was  quite  painful  the  distressing 
views  he  used  to  hold  on  such  subjects,  for  a  man  in 
his  position.  I  always  set  it  down  to  the  gipsy  blood  in 
him.  I' ve- heard  him  say  more  than  once  he  longed  to 
be  doing  something  that  he  called  useful  for  the  mass 
of  the  community.  Long  before  he  gave  way  to  these 
abnormal  longings,  and  neglected  his  natural  duties, 
and  ran  away  to  sea,  he's  told  me  time  and  again  he  felt 
a  sailor's  life  was  a  life  of  undoubted  value  and  useful- 
ness to  the  country.  A  sailor  was  employed  in  carry- 
ing commodities  from  one  place  where  they  were 
produced  tc  another  place  where  they  were  wanted  or 
^aten  or  something— consumed,  I  think  be  called  i^-^ 


mi^^ 


w 


VISITORS  IN  VENICE 


III 


and  nobody  could  deny  that  was  a  good  and  useful 
thinr  for  the  people  that  consumed  them.  "Very 
•well,  i^crtie,"  said  I — half  in  a  joke,  don't  you  know 
— "  then  why  shouldn't  you  go  yourself,  and  carry  coals 
to  Newcastle,  or  whatever  else  may  be  the  crying  want 
in  that  line  at  the  moment?" — never  dreaming,  of 
course,  the  poor  silly  boy  would  go  and  follow  my 
advice,  as  he  did  to  the  letter.  But  there !  these 
things  come  out  all  right  in  the  long-run.  "  There's 
a  divinity  that  shapes  our  ends,"  as  Tennyson  or 
somebody  says — ah,  thank  you,  was  it  Shakespeare  ? 
— "  rough-hew  them  how  we  may ;"  and  that's  been 
the  case,  I  say,  with  this  Axminster  peerage  business. 
For  the  upshot  of  it  all  is,  that  poor  Bertie's  dead 
and  gone,  sooner  than  one  could  reasonably  have  ex- 
pected, and  Algy's  come  into  the  property  and  title 
before  his  time ;  which  is  a  very  desirable  thing  to 
have  happened:  for  Bertie  might  have  married  a 
woman  after  his  own  heart,  no  doubt — a  sailor's  Poll 
for  choice — and  if  he  had,  why,  one  trembles  to  think 
what  the  children  might  have  been  like — a  perfect 
disgrace  to  their  ancestry  !' 

Mrs.  Hesslegrave  smiled  an  acquiescent  smile. 
But  as  for  Kathleen,  a  flash  of  light  broke  suddenly 
upon  her.  *A  sailor  is  employed  in  carrying  com- 
modities from  the  place  where  they  are  produced  to 
the  place  where  they  are  needed;  and  that  nobody 
can  deny  to  be  on  the  whole  a  useful  and  a  valuable 
function  lor  society !'  Surely  this  line  of  reasoning, 
were  it  right  or  wrong,  sounded  strangely  familiar  to 
her!  And  then,  as  she  thought  it  over,  it  broke 
upon  her  like  a  revelation  that  she  had  heard  similar 
words  before  now— from  Arnold  Willoughby !  From 
Arnold  "Willoughby  1     From  the   courteous   artist- 


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t 


I 


*  ■ 

a,' 

.    ft. 

;    t  ■ 


'I 


it: 


fi 


Bailor.  A  strange  misgiving  seizod  upon  her.  If  Lord 
Axminster  could  disguise  himself  as  Douglas  Overton, 
why  not  also  as  Arnold  Willoughby  ?  She  thought  at 
once  of  her  sailor  friend's  extraordinary  knowledge  of 
art  and  literature  for  a  common  sailor ;  of  his  chival- 
rous manners ;  of  his  demeanour,  which  so  belied  his 
dress  and  his  pretensions.  Turning  sharply  to  Canon 
Valentine  she  ventured  to  put  all  at  once  the  dubious 
question : 

'Did  Lord  Axminster  paint?  Had  he  any  know- 
ledge of  art,  I  mean  ?' 

*  Oh  dear  me,  yes  I*  the  Canon  answered  without  a 
second's  hesitation.  'He  studied  in  Paris  under  a 
first-rate  painter,  a  fellow  with  one  of  their  long- 
winded  double-barrelled  names  :  Bastien-somebody  it 
was ;  I  never  can  get  the  hang  of  them.' 

Kathleen  asked  no  more.  Her  heart  was  strangely 
troubled.  For  her  sailor  had  spoken  more  than  once 
incidentally  of  Bastien-Lepagf/s  studio.  Loyalty  to 
Arnold  Willoughby  made  her  hold  her  peace,  and 
refrain  from  blurting  out  the  doubt  that  rose  within 
her.  If  he  was  really  Lord  Axminster,  why,  it  would 
be  wrong  of  her  even  to  attempt  to  surprise  his  secret 
— still  more  to  betray  it.  The  words  from  which  she 
suspected  she  discovered  his  identity  had  been  spoken 
in  confidence,  in  the  most  private  conversation. 
Kathleen  couldn't  help  framing  to  herself  ofHiand  a 
pretty  little  romance,  based  on  the  familiar  Lord-of- 
Burleigh  model — *  He  was  but  a  landscape  painter, 
And  a  village  maiden  she  !*  A  romance  of  how  this 
young  man  had  tried  to  win  her  love  as  a  common 
sailor  (and  what  was  more,  succeeded  in  it),  and  how 
he  meant  in  the  end  to  astonish  the  world  by  telling 
her  he  was  an  Earl,  and  carrying  her  off  unawares  to 


fgflifim^'mmmmm 


VISITORS  IN  VENICE 


^3 


his  home  in  Devonshire,  to  share  the  fancied  glories 
of  Membury  Castle. 

•And  while  now  she  wonders  blindlj, 

Nor  the  meaning  can  divine. 
Proudly  turns  he  rouud  and  kindly, 
"  All  of  this  is  mine  and  thine."' 

'Twas  a  romantic  little  day-dream.  To  say  the 
truth.  Kathleen  regarded  it  only  as  such.  For  as  yet 
she  had  no  positive  reason  to  believe  that  Arnold 
Willoughby  even  loved  her.  She  had  but  guessed 
it  instinctively,  with  a  woman's  intuition.  And  as  to 
his  real  position  in  life  she  knew  absolutely  nothing. 
The  singular  coincidence  in  thought  and  phrase 
between  the  things  he  had  said  to  her  and  the  things 
the  Canon  repeated  as  Lord  Axminster's  sayings  was 
indeed  close  enough ;  but  it  might  be  accidental.  No 
human  being  is  ever  really  unique ;  every  thought 
and  feeling  we  can  have,  somebody  else  has  had  in 
almost  the  same  form,  we  may  be  sure,  before  us. 
And  perhaps  they  had  both  taken  word  and  thought 
alike  from  some  previous  thinker,  as  often  happens 
with  all  of  us.  For  aught  she  knew  to  the  contrary 
it  might  be  some  commonplace  of  Emerson's  or 
Thoreau's.  At  any  rate,  Kathleen  attached  no  serious 
importance  to  this  flash  of  identification,  at  least  after 
the  first  moment.  Still,  she  went  on  indulging  the 
day-dream,  as  one  often  will,  for  many  minutes 
together,  out  of  mere  fanciful  delight  in  it.  It  gave 
her  some  slight  relief  from  the  cling,  cling,  cling  of  the 
Canon's  perpetual  chatter  about  the  sayings  and 
doings  of  his  great  folk  in  London.  While  he  went 
droning  on  to  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  about  Lady  This  and 
Lady  That,  their  virtues    and  their   delinquencies, 


■■.•^mtmmmMm. 


114 


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■■  & 


ii  r 


p-  f- 


m    t'' 


:  f 


Kathleen  leaned  back  in  her  seat  in  the  broad 
Italian  sunshine,  and  closed  her  ears  to  it  all  mentally, 
while  she  enlarged  to  herself  upon  this  Axminster  day- 
dream, and  saw  herself  as  Arnold  Willoughby's  bride 
pacing  entranced  through  the  full  leaf  of  June  at 
Membury  Castle. 

At  last  she  shut  her  eyes  for  a  moment,  as  they 
were  nearing  a  bridge  at  one  familiar  corner,  where  a 
Romanesque  staircase  of  exquisite  workmanship  ran 
spirally  up  outside  a  round  tower  in  the  background. 
It  helped  her  day-dream  somewhat  to  shut  her  eyes : 
she  could  see  the  great  oaks  of  an  English  park :  she 
could  see  the  fallow  deer  on  dappled  spots  of  shade 
under  the  spreading  chestnuts.  A  sharp  cry  from  the 
Canon  made  her  open  them  again  suddenly.  Glancing 
up  in  alarm,  she  looked  in  the  direction  /here  her 
visitor's  eyes  were  fixed,  and  saw,  leaning  on  the 
parapet  of  the  high-pitched  bridge  that  spanned  their 
canal  close  by — who  else  but  Arnold  Willoughby ! 

The  Canon's  last  words,  unheeded  as  he  spoke  them, 
now  rang  clear  in  her  ears — *  He's  dead ;  that's  certain. 
We've  got  full  particulars.  All  hands  were  lost — and 
he  must  have  been  lost  among  them.* 

But  this  moment,  at  sight  of  Arnold  Willoughby's 
bent  head,  with  one  finger  twisted  carelessly  in  the 
lock  behind  his  ear,  the  Canon  sat  staring  wildly  in 
front  of  him  with  wide-open  eyes. 

*  Why,  look  there !'  he  cried,  taken  aback,  in  a 
voice  of  something  very  little  short  of  horror.  *  Look 
there  !  Who's  that !  The  man  on  the  bridge  just  in 
front  of  us?* 

'What's  the  matter  with  him!*  Mrs.  Hesslegrave 
exclaimed,  following  blankly  the  direction  of  the 
Canon's  eyes.    She  had  always  been  sure  there  must 


VISITORS  IN  VENICE 


"5 


be  something  seriously  wrong  about  that  dreadful 
Willoughby  man ;  and  now  they  were  discovering  it. 
Could  the  Canon  have  recognised  him  as  an  escaped 
comdct,  or  told  him  at  a  glance  as  the  Banbury 
murderer  ? 

But  Canon  Valentine  gazed  harder  and  more 
steadily  than  any  of  them.  He  seized  Kathleen's  arm 
with  a  convulsive  start. 

*  Yes,  it's  him  !'  he  said  excitedly,  in  a  tone  of  blank 
alarm ;  *  a  good  deal  altered,  of  course,  and  quite  dis- 
guised beyond  anybody  else's  recognition.  But  it's 
him,  sure  enough  I  I  should  know  him  in  a  thou- 
sand r  .:  ' 

'It's  wko?*  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  faltered  out,  hardly 
daring  to  ask. 

The  Canon  gasped  for  breath.  He  could  only  just 
speak. 

*Why,  Bertie!'  he  answered  low,  leaning  forward 
to  whisper  it.  '  Don't  you  understand  ?  Bertie 
Bedburn  !  The  man  that's  dead !  The  late  Lord 
Axminster  V 


CHAPTER  XI. 

MBS.   HESSLEGBAVB   MISAPPBEHEND3. 

The  words  were  scarcely  out  of  the  Canon's  mouth 
when  straightway  he  repented  of  them.  If  this  was 
really  Bertie,  he  ought  to  have  held  his  peace.  The 
man  was  skulking  in  that  case — quite  evidently  skulk- 
ing ;  he  wanted  to  disappear :  he  didn't  wish  to  be 
recognised.  It  was  no  business  of  the  Canon's,  then, 
to  drag  a  fellow-creature  against  his  will  out  of  volun- 
tary retirement,  and  to  spoil  Algy's  chance  of  obtain- 


iJ|!.*T 


lllpiliilppiplljillt^^ 


Ii6 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


ing  the  peerage.  On  the  other  hand,  if  it  wasn't  Bertie, 
the  Canon  should,  of  course,  have  been  the  last  man 
on  earth  to  call  attention  to  a  likeness — really,  now 
he  came  to  think  of  it,  a  very  remote  likeness — to  the 
late  Earl,  and  so  give  rise  to  a  rumour  which  might 
prove  prejudicial  in  the  end  to  Algy's  position.  He 
had  cried  out  in  the  heat  of  the  moment,  in  the  first 
flush  of  surprise ;  he  began  to  hedge  at  once,  as  soon 
as  ever  he  perceived,  on  cooler  reflection,  the  possible 
consequences  of  his  instinctive  action.  This  is  a  very 
small  planet.  Sooner  or  later,  we  all  collide  upon  its 
surface. 

As  for  Kathleen,  her  first  thought  was  one  of  loyalty 
to  Arnold.  If  he  was  Lord  Axminster — and  of  this 
she  had  now  very  little  doubt  left ;  the  double  coinci- 
dence settled  it— he  was  trying  to  hide  himself:  he 
/didn't  wish  to  be  recognised.  That  was  enough  for 
her.  He  desired  that  his  personality  as  Arnold 
Willoughby  should  not  be  mixed  up  with  his  person- 
ality as  Bertie  Eedburn.  Therefore,  it  was  her  clear 
duty  not  to  betray  him  in  any  way.  She  glanced 
nervously  at  her  mother.  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  had  half 
risen  from  her  seat,  overjoyed  to  hear  that  this  was 
really  an  English  earl,  whose  high  birth  and  intrinsic 
nobility  they  had  discovered  for  themselves  under  the 
guise  of  a  common  sailor,  and  was  just  about  to  call 
out:  'Mr.  Willoughby!  Mr.  Willoughby !'  But  Kath- 
leen darted  upon  her  suddenly  such  a  warning  glance 
that  she  withered  up  forthwith,  and  held  her  peace 
devoutly.  She  didn't  know  why  she  was  to  keep 
silent;  but  she  could  see,  from  Kathleen's  half-im- 
perious, half-imploring  look,  there  was  some  good 
reason  for  it ;  and  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  was  one  of  those 
rare  stupid  people  who  recognise  the  fact  of  their  own 


J  , 


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1 


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,1 


MRS.  HESSLZGRAVE  MISAPPREHENDS       1.7 

stupidity,  and  allow  themselves  to  be  blindly  guided 
in  emergencies  by  others.  So  she  held  her  peace,' 
merely  remarking,  as  she  sat  down  again  : 

*  So  you  think  that's  Lord  Axminster !  Dressed  up 
like  that !    Well,  really  now,  how  interesting !' 

Arnold  Willoughby's  face,  meanwhile,  was  all  the 
time  turned  half  in  the  opposite  direction.  He  did 
not  see  the  gondola,  nor  Kathleen,  nor  the  Canon. 
He  was  engaged,  in  fact,  in  watching  and  mentally 
photographing  for  artistic  purposes  the  graceful  move- 
ments of  a  passing  barge  as  she  swung  slowly  through 
the  bridge  over  whose  balustrade  he  was  hanging. 
While  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  spoke,  he  turned  and  went 
on  without  observing  them.  Next  instant,  he  was 
lost  in  the  crowd  that  surged  and  swayed  through 
the  narrow  calle.  The  danger  was  averted.  He  had 
never  so  much  as  observed  the  Canon. 

As  for  that  astute  old  gentleman,  now  he  had 
recovered  his  breath,  he  saw  his  mistake  at  once,  and 
faced  it  boldly.  When  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  said,  *  So 
you  think  that's  Lord  Axminster?'  he  answered  im- 
mediately, with  perfect  self-control : 

*  No,  I  don't.  I  was  mistaken.  It  was — a  passing 
fancy.  For  a  second  I  imagined — merely  imagined, 
don't  you  know — the  man  looked  something  like  him. 
I  suppose  it  was  the  sailor  get-up  which  just  at  first 
deceived  me.  Poor  Axminster  used  to  dress  like  a 
sailor  when  he  yachted.  Amelia,  my  dear,  that  was 
not  Bertie,  was  it?  You  could  see  the  man  dis- 
tinctly.* 

*0h  dear  no,  Fred,'  Mrs.  Valentine  echoed  in  a 
voice  of  profound  conviction ;  *  not  the  least  bit  like 
him!' 

The  Canon  frowned  sKghtly.    Amelia  had  bettered 


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her  instructions  unbidden.  He  was  the  least  bit  like 
him,  else  why  should  the  Canon  have  mistaken  him 
at  first  sight  for  his  kinsman  Bertie  ?  But  not  very 
like. 

*  A  mere  superficial  resemblance,'  he  went  on,  hedg^ 
ing  violently.  *  Just  at  the  first  glance,  to  be  sure — 
having  my  head  full  of  the  subject,  and  seeing  the 
sailor  dress — I  mistook  him  for  Bertie.  But  when  I 
came  to  look  again,  the  fellow  was  altogether  different. 
Same  build,  perhaps,  but  features  gone  shorter  and 
thicker  and  flatter.  A  man  may  dye  his  hair,  and 
cut  his  beard,  and  so  forth;  but,  hang  it  all,  Mrs. 
Hesslegrave !  he  can't  go  and  get  rid  of  his  own  born 
features.* 

He  talked  all  the  rest  of  the  way  home  of  nothing 
on  earth  except  singular  resemblances  and  mistaken 
identities.  There  were  Perkin  Warbeck,  and  Edmund 
Wyld,  and  the  Tichbome  Claimant.  There  was  Sidney 
Carton  in  the  *  Tale  of  Two  Cities.'  And  he  came  back 
always  to  the  fundamental  point,  that  the  features  of 
a  fa^e  at  least — the  features  must  always  remain ;  you 
might  dress,  and  you  might  paint,  but  there  was  no 
possibility  of  getting  over  the  features.  He  over- 
elaborated  this  issue,  in  fact.  Kathleen  could  see 
from  every  phrase  he  was  sure  in  his  own  heart  he 
had  seen  Bertie  Eedbum,  and  was  trying  to  argue 
himself,  and  still  more  his  hearers,  out  of  that  positive 
conviction.  Even  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  saw  it,  indeed, 
and  murmured  aside  'to  Kathleen,  as  they  stood  on 
the  steps  of  the  Molo:         -  *" 

*  That  is  Lord  Axminster,  Kitty,  and  the  dear  Canon 
knew  it ;  but,  for  Algernon  Bedburn's  sake,  he  didn't 
like  to  acknowledge  it.'  ^    ■: 

Kathleen  gazed  at  her  seriously.  V'  /?• 


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MRS,  HESSLEGRAVE  MISAPPREHENDS       119 

'Mother,  mother,'  she  cried,  in  a. low  voice,  *for 
heaven's  sake,  don't  say  so!  Don't  say  anything 
about  it.  You  won't  understand  yet;  but  when  we 
get  home,  I'll  tell  you.  Please  say  nothing  more  now. 
If  you  do,  you  may  upset  everything !' 

A  vague  idea  crossed  Mrs.  Hesslegrave's  mind  at 
that  moment,  that  Kathleen  might  perhaps  have  known 
this  all  along,  and  that  that  might  account  for  her 
being  so  much  taken  up  with  this  dreadful  sailor-man 
— who  wasn't  really  a  dreadful  sailor-man  at  all,  as  it 
turned  out,  but  the  real  Lord  Axminster !  If  so,  how 
delightful!  However,  she  waited  for  more  light  on 
these  matters  in  Kathleen's  own  good  time,  only 
murmuring,  meanwhile,  half  under  her  breath,  to  her 
daughter:  » 

*  "Well,  whoever  he  is,  he's  a  charming  fellow.  You 
must  admit,  yourself,  I've  thought  all  along  he's  a 
charming  fellow.' 

By  this  time  the  Canon  had  settled  with  the  gondo- 
lier— after  a  resolute  attempt  at  resistance  to  the 
man's  extortionate  endeavour  to  exact  his  proper  fare 
by  municipal  tariff — and  was  ready  to  stroll  up  to  the 
Hesslegraves'  apartments.  For  it  was  a  principal 
clause  in  the  Canon's  private  creed  that  every  foreigner 
is  always  engaged  in  a  conspiracy  to  defraud  every 
British  subject  on  whom  he  can  lay  his  hands ;  and 
that  the  way  to  make  your  road  easy  across  the 
Continent  is  to  fight  every  item  of  every  account,  all 
along  the  line,  the  'moment  it  is  presented.  The 
extortionate  gondolier  had  conquered,  however,  by 
producing  a  printed  tariff  which  fixed  his  hire  at  the 
modest  rate  of  a  franc  an  hour ;  so  the  Canon,  paying 
it  out  without  a  sou  of  pourboire,  strode  on  towards 
the  lod^^Ings,  disconsolate  and  distracted.    He  knew 


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in  his  heart  of  hearts  that  was  really  Axminster; 
much  altered,  no  doubt,  by  deliberate  disguise;  dis- 
torted beyond  belief,  but  still  undeniably  Axminster ; 
and  he  firmly  resolved  never  to  mention  his  conclusion 
for  worlds  to  anyone — not  even  to  Amelia.  A  man 
has  no  right  to  appear  and  disappear  and  then 
suddenly  crop  up  again  by  fits  and  starts  in  this 
uncanny  manner — to  play  bo-peep,  as  it  were,  with 
the  House  of  Lords,  the  most  dignified,  exalted,  and 
supreme  court  in  the  United  Kingdom.  Once  dead, 
always  dead,  was  a  rule  that  ought  to  be  applied  to 
these  Tichbornian  revivalists.  If  you  choose  to  go  out 
like  a  candle  of  your  own  free  will,  why,  the  world 
should  sternly  decline  to  recognise  you  when  you 
want  to  come  tojife  again  at  inconvenient  moments. 
There  should  be  a  Bill  brought  in  to  declare  Bertie 
Eedburn  was  really  dead;  and  then  dead  he  should 
remain,  by  Act  of  Parliament ! 

But  as  soon  as  they  were  inside  the  house,  and 
Kathleen  had  gone  up  with  her  mother  and  Mrs. 
Valentine  into  her  pretty  little  bedroom  to  take  off 
her  bonnet,  the  Canon's  own  wife  gave  vent  explosively 
to  a  fearful  and  wholly  unexpected  disclosure.  *  You 
know,  my  dear,'  she  said  confidentially,  'that  was 
Lord  Axminster.  I  feel  quite  sure  of  it.  Only,  of 
course,  I  wouldn't  say  so,  on  dear  Fred's  account. 
You  know  dear  Fred  can't  bear  to  be  contradicted.* 

Once  more  Kathleen  darted  a  warning  look  at  her 
mother;  and  once  more  Mrs.  "Hesslegrave  accepted 
the  hint  blindly.  *But  he  was  so  different,  the 
Canon  thought,'  she  remarked,  just  to  keep  up  the 
conversation,  wondering  dimly  all  the  while  what  this 
mystification  could  mean — too  deep,  in  fact,  for  a 
quiet,  respectable  old  lady's  fathoming. 


MRS.  HESSLEGRAVE  MISAPPREHENDS       121 


*  Oh,  you  can't  deceive  me !'  Mrs.  Valentine 
answered  with  warmth.  *  I'm  sure  it  was  Lord 
Axminster.  And  I'll  tell  you  how  I  know :  his 
features  were  really  changed,  exactly  as  Fred  said: 
he  must  have  had  something  done  to  them.  They 
say  you  can  get  your  face  moulded  like  putty,  if  you 
choose  to  bear  it,  nowadays.  But  he  had  always  a 
nervous  trick  of  pulling  ono  back  lock  of  his  hair,  as 
he  stood  still  and  thought — like  this,  don't  you  know ! 
a  sort  of  back-handed  twirl :  and  the  moment  I  saw 
him,  I  remembered  it  instantly.  He  might  walk  down 
Bond  Street  any  morning,  and  meet  every  friend  he 
ever  knew  in  the  world,  and  not  one  in  a  thousand 
would  ever  suspect  it  was  he;  but  Fred  and  I,  we 
would  know,  because  we  saw  such  a  lot  of  hir»i  as  a 
child,  and  were  accustomed  i^  reprove  him  tor  this 
same  awkward  trick  of  his.' 

And,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  moment  Mrs.  Valentine 
mentioned  it,  Kathleen  recollected  perfectly  that  she 
had  often  observed  Arrold  Willoughby  stand  in  just 
the  way  she  mimicked,  pulling  a  particular  lock  at  the 
back  of  his  hair,  whenever  he  was  observant  of  a 
person's  face,  or  attentive  to  any  element  in  a  picture 
or  landscape. 

The  moment  she  could  get  alone  with  her  mother 
upstairs,  she  began  to  speak  to  her  seriously. 

*  Mother,'  she  said  in  her  most  coaxing  tone,  '  you 
were  so  good  to  take  my  hints.  I  didn't  want  Canon 
Valentine  to  know  who  Mr.  Willoughby  was — I  mean, 
what  name  he  calls  himself — or  that  you  and  I  knew 
him;  for  I'm  sure  the  Canon  was  right;  Mr.  Wil- 
loughby's  Lord  Axminster.' 

Mrs.  Hesslegrave  made  no  immediate  reply  except 
to  step  forward  with  the  utmost  gentleness  and  press 


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a  motherly  kiss  upon  her  daughter's  forehead.  *  Oh, 
Kitty,'  she  cried,  gazing  fondly  at  her,  *  how  awfully 
clever  of  you  !  My  darling,  I'm  so  glad  !  And.  I've 
been  seeing  all  along  how  much  attention  he  was 
paying  you.' 

Kathleen  flushed  up  to  her  eyes  again.  It  was  a 
way  she  had  when  deeply  moved.  And  she  knew  her 
mother  was  very  much  pleased  with  her  indeed ;  for 
only  when  very  much  pleased  did  Mrs.  Hesslegrave 
ever  address  her  by  her  pet  name  of  Kitty.  'But 
that's  not  all,  mother,'  she  went  on  eagerly.  *  I  want 
you  to  promise  me,  oh,  ever  so  faithfully,  you  won't 
tell  anybody  who  he  is,  or  anything  else  about  him. 
He  wouldn't  like  it,  if  you  did.  Promise  me,  dearest, 
promise  mn  !* 

Mrs.  Hesslegrave  drew  back  for  a  second,  lost  in 
mazes  of  thought.  She  couldn't  quite  understand 
this  queer  Axminster  mystery.  Then,  being  a 
romantic  old  lady,  as  many  old  ladies  are,  she  wove 
for  herself  on  the  spot  a  little  private  romance  of  how 
it  had  all  happened.  Lord  Axminster,  it  appeared, 
distrusting  all  womankind,  after  his  bitter  experience 
with  Lady  S8'"k,  had  come  abroad  in  disguise  as  a 
common  sailor,  in  order  to  look  out  for  some  girl  he 
could  really  love — some  girl  who  could  really  love 
him,  as  a  man  wishes  to  be  loved,  for  himself,  not  for 
his  estate,  his  rank  or  his  title.  But  Kathleen,  like  a 
clever  girl  that  she  was,  had  discovered  by  intuition 
his  real  position  in  life  under  those  humble  surround- 
ings, and  had  fallen  in  love  with  him,  and  made  him 
fall  in  love  with  her.  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  could  under- 
stand now  what  she  had  never  understood  before — 
how  a  well-conducted  girl  like  her  Kitty  could  have 
permitted  herself  to  form  a  romantic  attachment  for  a 


"^wmmmmffiiiw^ 


MRS.  HESSLEGRAVE  MISAPPREHENDS       123 

man  apparently  so  very  far  beneath  her.  It  was  just 
like  Kitty  to  have  unmasked  the  real  Earl ;  in  her  joy 
and  pride — to  think  her  own  daughter  should  have 
captured  a  peer  of  the  realm  under  such  adverse  con- 
ditions by  sheer  dint  of  insight — Mrs.  Hesslegrave 
once  more  bent  tenderly  forward,  and  kissed  the 
wondering  Kathleen  a  second  time  on  her  forehead. 

'  I'll  promise  whatever  you  like,  dear,'  she  said  in  a 
very  pleased  tone,  for  this  was  a  great  occasion,  '  Oh, 
Kitty,  I'm  so  delighted !  And  indeed,  dear,  I'm  sorry 
I  ever  seemed  to  throw  any  obstacles  in  Mr.  Willough- 
by's  way — I  mean,  in  Lord  Axminster's.  But  there ! 
you'll  forgive  me :  I  didn't  understand  the  circui  1- 
stances  as  you  did.  And  though  I  didn't  quite  approve 
of  your  seeing  so  much  as  you  did  of  him — under 
misapprehension,  of  course,  as  to  his  real  place  in 
society — ^you  must  remember  yourself  I  always  allowed 
that,  viewed  as  a  m&n  alone,  he  was  a.  most  charming 
person.'  V 

Kathleen  didn't  exactly  understand  what  her  mother 
was  driving  at ;  these  words  were  too  deep  for  her : 
but  for  the  moment  she  didn't  think  it  necessary  to 
inquire  as  to  their  hidden  meaning :  she  was  so  afraid 
her  mother  might  by  some  imprudence  betray  Arnold 
Willoughby's  secret.  And  no  matter  why  he  wished 
it  kept,  she  felt  for  her  own  part  'twas  a  point  of 
honour  for  them  both  to  insist  upon  keeping  it.  So 
she  said  very  hurriedly : 

*  Whatever  you  do,  dear  mother,  don't  let  Canon 
Valentine  know  Mr.  Willoughby's  a-  friend  of  ours. 
Don't  say  a  word  about  him,  in  fact.  Let  the  Canon 
suppose  the  man  he  saw  on  the  bridge  is  a  perfect 
stranger  to  all  of  us.  I  must  manage  to  prevent 
Mr.  Willoughby  from  visiting  the  house  for  the  present, 


i|P||li|p9pifPP|Mm!PPIf>.MEit^PU  pi|f|^i.yi||ijp4U. 


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somehow.  If  Canon  Valentine  were  to  find  out  who 
he  really  was,  it  would  spoil  all — and  then  Mr.  Wil- 
loughby  would  be  so  dreadfully  disappointed.' 

Mrs.  Hesslograve  caught  instinctively  at  that  one 
phrase,  *  spoil  all,*  which  confirmed  her  at  once  in  her 
most  romantic  preconceptions.  Then  it  was  just  as 
she  expected :  the  Earl  and  Kitty  had  arrived  at  an 
understanding.  There  was  a  mystery  in  the  case,  of 
course ;  but  Kitty  would  clear  it  all  up ;  and  she 
should  live  yet  to  see  her  only  daughter  a  countess. 

*  My  darling,'  the  proud  mother  said,  looking  at  her  * 
with  affection — for  it  is  something  to  have  a  daughter 
who  can  catch  earls  in  disguise — *  tell  me  all  about  it ! 
"When  did  Lord  Axminster  ask  you  ?' 

*He  has  never  asked  me,  mother,'  Kathleen  an- 
swered with  a  very  deep  blush.  Then  she  paused  for 
a  moment.  Her  heart  rose  into  her  mouth.  The 
avowal  seemed  so  natural  at  a  crisis  like  that.  *  But 
I  love  him,*  she  went  on,  clasping  her  hands ;  *  and 
I'm  sure  he  loves  me.  Oh,  mother,  don't  say  any- 
thing that  would  lead  him  to  suppose  you've  heard  a 
word  of  all  this.  If  you  do,  all  will  be  lost !  I  know 
he  wouldn't  care  for  any  of  us  to  know  he  was  really 
Lord  Axminster.' 

She  trembled  for  her  unavowed  lover,  now  the  truth 
was  upon  her. 

*  My  dear,'  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  answered,  her  admira- 
tion for  Kathleen's  cleverness  and  power  of  self-restraint 
growing  deeper  each  minute,  *  you  may  set  your  mind  ' 
at  rest :  you  may  rely  upon  my  prudence.  I  grasp 
the  situation.  I  couldn't  have  believed  it,  Kitty ;  but 
I'm  very,  very  glad  of  it.  What  a  wonderful  girl  you 
are !  I  declare  you  really  almost  take  ,my  breath 
away  l'  ^  "^ 


MRS.  IIESSLEGRAVE  MISAPPREHENDS       125 


And,  indeed,  Mrs.  Hesslogi-ave  felt  it  was  most  meri- 
torious in  Kathleen  to  have  discovered  the  young 
man's  rank  so  early — as  of  course  she  must  have  done 
— and  to  have  succeeded  in  keeping  her  own  counsel 
so  well  that  even  her  mother  never  for  a  moment 
suspected  the  real  rank  of  her  lover ;  for  that  a  lover 
he  was,  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  took  for  granted  at  once, 
now  she  knew  the  dreadful  sailor-man  was  really  an 
earl.  She  would  hardly  have  given  her  Kathleen 
credit  before  for  so  much  gumption. 

As  for  Kathleen,  she  was  so  fully  bent  upon  pre- 
serving Arnold  Willoughby's  secret,  that  she  never 
even  noticed  her  mother's  misapprehension.  Her  one 
desire  now  was  to  keep  the  matter  entirely  from  Canon 
Valentine,  and,  if  possible,  to  prevent  their  accident- 
ally meeting.  And  that,  she  foresaw,  would  be  no 
easy  task ;  for  of  late,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Hesslegrave's 
marked  coldness,  Arnold  had  frequently  called  round 
on  one  errand  or  another  with  sketches  or  books  at 
the  lodgings  by  the  Piazza. 

,  Just  as  she  was  wondering  how  best  to  avert  the 
misfortune  of  an  unexpected  encounter,  however,  Mrs. 
Hesslegrave  observed  with  her  blandest  smile : 

*  We  haven't  seen  much  of  Mr.  Willoughby  lately. 
I  really  think,  Kathleen,  I'll  write  this  very  day  and 
invite  him  to  come  round  to  tea  some  afternoon  while 
the  Canon's  with  us.* 

Kathleen  stood  aghast  with  horror.  She  quite 
understood  Arnold  Willoughby's  motives  now;  with 
a  flash  of  intuition,  the  minute  she  learned  who  he 
really  was,  she  read  at  once  the  reasons  for  his  strange 
behaviour.  Something  of  the  sort,  indeed,  had  oc- 
curred to  her  as  possible  even  before,  when  she  con- 
trasted the  man's  talk  and  wide  range  of  information 


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with  his  supposed  position  in  life ;  hut  now  she  knew 
who  he  was,  it  all  burst  at  once  upon  her.  And  she 
had  loved  him  as  the  common  sailor ;  that  she  had 
never  concealed  from  her  own  heart  for  many  days, 
since  the  trip  to  the  Lido.  He  could  never  say  of  her 
in  future  it  was  his  rank  and  his  artificial  position  in 
the  world  that  had  captivated  her  fancy.  She  loved 
him  for  himself ;  she  knew  it ;  she  was  certain  of  it ! 
Had  she  not  written  it  down  in  plain  black  and  white 
in  her  diary  ?  Yet  if  he  were  to  find  out  now  that  she 
had  discovered  his  true  name— Kathleen  trembled  to 
herself  as  she  thought  of  the  possible  result,  for  she 
was  very  much  in  love — he  might  never  ask  her.  She 
wished  in  her  heart  he  was  really  Arnold  Willoughby, 
the  sailor-painter,  or  that  she  had  never  discovered 
the  truth  as  to  his  artificial  position. 

But  something  must  be  done  at  once  to  prevent 
this  catastrophe  which  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  so  innocently 
proposed  to  bring  about.  Kathleen  seized  her  mother's 
arm  with  a  nervous  clutch. 

*  Mother,*  she  cried,  much  agitated,  *  for  worlds  you, 
mustn't  write !  for  worlds  you  mustn't  ask  him  !  Oh, 
promise  me  you  won't  ask  him !  You  don't  know  how 
much  depends  on  it.  For  Heaven's  sake,  say  you 
won't ;  say  you'll  do  as  I  beg  of  you  !* 

Mrs.  Hesslegrave,  much  puzzled  as  to  what  all  this 
mystification  and  agitation  could  mean,  yet  drew  back 
at  once,  and  answered  in  perfect  good  faith  : 

*  Oh,  certainly,  certainly,  I'll  do  as  you  wish,  dear ; 
though  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why.  Such  plot  and 
counterplot  is  a  great  deal  too  deep  for  a  poor  simple 
old  woman.' 

Kathleen's  heart  sank  at  the  words.  They  were 
only  too  true.     She  felt  sure  she  could  trust  her 


ifii^^n'vvpiPifiWPilPPPilpni! 


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mother's  good  intentions  implicitly ;  but  she  was  by 
no  means  so  certain  she  could  trust  her  discretion. 

'Though  I've  always  said,'  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  re- 
marked in  conclusion,  *he  was  really  in  his  way  a  • 
most  charming  person.' 


CHAPTEE  XTI. 

A  mother's  dilemma. 

Canon  Valentine  had  intended  to  stop  a  week  at 
Venice.  He  stopped  just  two  days;  and  then,  to 
Kathleen's  secret  joy  and  no  small  relief,  bronchitis 
seized  him.  That  stern  monitor  hurried  him  off  in- 
continently to  Florence.  *  I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Hessle- 
grave,' he  said;  *I  can't  tell  you  how  sorry.  I'd 
looked  forward  to  seeing  everything  in  this  charming 
place  under  your  daughter's  guidance — she's  a  capital 
cicerone,  I  must  say,  your  daughter ;  we  did  so  enjoy 
going  round  ^he  Grand  Canal  with  her  the  day  before 
yesterday.  It's  so  delightful  to  see  all  these  beautiful 
things  in  company  with  an  artist !  But  the  damp  of 
the  lagoons  is  really  too  much  for  my  poor  old  throat ; 
we're  given  to  throat-trouble,  you  see ;  it's  common 
to  my  cloth ;  and  as  I  went  along  with  Miss  Hessle- 
grave to  the  Academy  yesterday  in  an  open  gondola, 
I  felt  the  cold  air  rise  up  bodily  from  the. Canal  and 
catch  hold  of  me  and  throttle  me.  It  took  me  just 
so,  by  the  larynx,  like  a  hand,  and  seemed  to  choke 
me  instantly.  "  Amelia,"  said  I  at  the  time,  "  this 
chilly  air  has  done  for  me."  And,  sure  enough,  I 
woke  in  the  night  with  a  tickle,  tickle,  tickle  in  my 
bronchial    tubes,   which    I    know  means    mischiel. 


4T  MARKET  VALUE 


128  •  ,      r.^-u\r\a  for  it  laiit  to 

When  once  that  sets  i^^f  J^^.    Chan^       ■ 
Ze  the  place  ^I'f  J^SirVB  Z  one  Bate  remedy. 
T.  air  without  delay:  tb»"  ^     -^^  spoilt, 

Md^deed,  to  ten  JO^'^^e  Strians  lelt  it,  *-  • 
^utterly  BVoilt,  »«««  ^"^^^tegrave,  1  must  confess 
:Ut  to^  y°»  ^"'to ':  t  outoHt.  Most  insanitary 
^  ^^^";*ili:^SotUtanitary  in  every -J^^^^ 

^  ^TiS  tuld  I'-^ly -rrS   he  lad  Uved 
.  ^      last  two  uaj  „„-„phow  knock 

departure.  ^«»g     ^^^  Canon  would  somehow 

in  ir^Btant  dread  *^  ^iUoughby-  ^/^f^^d  on  the 
"P  f  r  old"  ^^  *^  "'=  I  T^rwas  driving 

^:U%Snot  ^-]^nLy::;f::  the  ha^ 

r'^^tttoTahout  Venice  wa.  ^^'''^J^^e  mistortune 
.  tbns  flitting  »"  ,        Q^  to  avoia  i.uo 

in  the  flesh,  and  m 


p{JJH!|»WlW,!i|||||^^ 


l.f||PpPpi||pLll.y|| 


A  MOTHER'S  DILEMMA 


129 


There  are  compromises  we  all  make  now  and  again 
with  our  consciences ;  and  there  are  points  where  we 
feel  the  attempt  at  compromise  becomes  practically 
impossible.  Now,  the  Canon  was  quite  willing  to  give 
Algy  and  his  wife  the  benefit  of  the  doubt,  as  long  as 
he  felt  only  just  morally  certain  that  the  person  in 
the  Hcreet  with  the  trick  of  twisting  his  back  hair  was 
the  last  Lord  Axminster.  But  if  they  met  face  to 
face,  and  he  recognised  his  man  without  doubt,  as 
he  felt  sure  he  must  do  when  they  came  to  close 
quarters,  then  the  Canon  felt  in  his  heart  he  could 
no  longer  retain  any  grain  of  self-respect  if  he  per- 
mitted the  claim  to  be  pushed  through  the  House  of 
Lords  without  even  mentioning  what  he  had  seen  to 
Algy.  He  might  have  kept  silence,  indeed,  and  let 
self-respect  take  its  chance,  if  he  met  the  man  alone ; 
but  what  on  earth  could  he  do  if  he  met  him,  full 
front,  while  out  walking  with  Amelia  ?  That  was  the 
question.  And  I  may  remark  parenthetically  that 
most  men  feel  keenly  this  necessity  for  preserving 
their  self-respect  before  the  face  of  their  wives — 
which  is  a  very  important  ally,  indeed,  to  the  cause 
of  all  the  virtues. 

So,  on  the  third  morning  of  his  stay,  the  Canon 
left  Venice.  Kathleen  breathed  freer  as  soon  as  he 
was  gone.  The  load  of  that  gnawing  anxiety  was 
much  lightened  upon  her. 

That  very  same  day,  as  it  chanced,  Arnold  Wil- 
loughby,  reflecting  to  himself  in  his  own  room,  made 
his  mind  up  suddenly  to  step  round  in  the  afternoon 
and  have,  a  word  or  two  with  Kathleen.  Ever  since 
that  mornuag  when  they  picnicked  at  the  Lido,  he 
had  been  debating  with  himself  whether  or  not  he 
should  ask  thfit  beautiful  soul  to  marrv  him ;  an4 


■ts^gsimi^^ 


AT  M^KKET  VALVE 


K'Ti 


ask  her.    He  was  ^"J^  "^f  ^owed  unequivocaUy . 

„^    verv  iniiot:  that  sne  ■*  ^e  couldnt 

Y' J  tod  waited  so  long  only  ^«^f 'Vould  it  he 

^oman  to  wait  tdl  an  od  ^  ^^  ^^^^  a„d 

eam  money  enough  to  keep  ,a? 

luxury  to  which  she  had  "een  .      i  .  and  ho 

"put  that  question  to  l'«'«^  «  ^^  .eally  heen 
answefeditinthef  "^^  y"  l,ad  now  made 
Always  the  Aruold  ^f'^f^  ^^ever  have  doubted. 
ZLm  by  his  own  act,  he  n^J  n^  ^^^^^  ^^ 

My  young  man.  ]«!  f^'^fy      the  gW  he  loved 

^Lht  himseU  i»«t'fi«*.,%;,  y°,  till  he  was  m  a 
£7in  the  woria  to  wa^  lor  ^-^  ^^^  1,    ao  ,Uat 

'     position  to  »''«y.\''a„  lawfully?    He  had  cast  the 
anv  other  man  might  do  l^J"'  ^       ^y,^^  now;  but 
S  behind  him ;  he  '-^  ^^^^^t  to  ask  the  girl 
Uy  need  he  hesitate  «■?  ™«,  °„„„  „„  bis  own  merits 
;hose  love  he  beUeved  he  ^^^  J°^        ^^r  ?    AmoW 
I  she  would  wait  tm  he  con        ^^  ^^  ^^  ^„u 
Tjfaioughby  would  have  ao 

■Wjlloughhy.  ,  ,  „v  l,«  went  round,  somewnai 

Bo,  about  three  o'clock  te  wen     ^^^     ^     ^n't 
tremulous,  in  the  daection  ol  the  ^^  ^^^  ^ 

rrKathleen  for  ^.^'^J  "^^^Vithout  mentionmg 
fatods  would  he  '"f  «g  f  ^;„  herseU  a  hoUday. 
ttoir  name;  and  ^e  tod  gw^^^^  ^^^  .^^.^tomed 

S2::jrS::ntadella.attere, 


A  MOTHER'S  DILEMMA 


»3i 


When  he  got  to  the  door,  Francesca,  who  opened  it, 
told  him,  with  a  sunny  display  of  two  rows  of  white 
teeth,  that  the  signorina  was  out,  hut  the  signora  was 
at  home,  if  he  would  care  to  see  her. 

Much  disappointed,  Arnold  went  up,  anxious  to 
learn  whether  any  chance  still  remained  that,  later  in 
the  afternoon,  he  might  have  a  word  or  two  with 
Kathleen.  To  his  immense  surprise,  the  moment  he 
entered,  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  rose  from  her  seat  with 
ohvious  warmth,  and  held  out  her  hand  to  greet  him 
in  her  most  gracious  manner.  Arnold  had  noticed  hy 
this  time  the  seven  distinct  gradations  of  cordiality 
with  which  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  was  accustomed  to 
receive  her  various  guests  in  accordance  with  their 
respective  and  relative  positions  in  the  tahle  of  prece- 
dence as  by  authority  established.  This  afternoon, 
therefore,  he  couldn't  help  observing  her  manner  was 
that  with  which  she  was  wont  to  welcome  peers  of  the 
realm  and  foreign  ambassadors.  To  say  the  truth, 
Mrs.  Hesslegrave  considerably  overdid  it  in  the  matter 
of  graciousness.  There  was  an  inartistic  abruptness 
in  her  sudden  change  of  front,  a  practical  inconsist- 
ency in  her  view  of  his  status,  which  couldn't  fail  to 
strike  him.  The  instant  way  in  which  Mrs.  Hessle- 
grave, who  had  hitherto  taken  little  pains  to  conceal 
her  dislike  and  distrust  of  the  dreadful  sailor  man, 
flung  herself  visibly  at  his  head,  made  Arnold  at  once 
suspect  some  radical  revolution  must  have  taken  place 
meanwhile  in  her  views  as  to  his  position. 

'Why,  Mr.  Willoughby,'  she  cried,  holding  his 
hand  in  her  own  much  longer  than  was  strictly  neces- 
sary for  the  purpose  of  shaking  it,  *  what  a  stranger 
you  are,  to  be  sure !  You  never  come  near  us  now. 
It's  really  quite  unfriendly  of  you.    Kathleen  wa8 


132 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


saying  this  morning  we  must  write  round  to  your 
chambers  and  ask  you  to  dine  with  us.  And  she 
hasn't  seen  you  for  the  last  day  or  two  on  the  Zattere, 
either  !  Poor  child !  she's  been  so  occupied.  We've 
had  some  friends  here,  who've  been  taking  up  all 
our  time.  Kitty's  been  out  in  a  gondola  all  day 
long  with  them.  However,  that's  all  over,  and  she 
hopes  to  get  to  work  again  on  the  quay  to-morrow — 
she's  so  anxious  to  go  on  with  her  Spire  and  Canal ; 
wrapped  up  in  her  art,  dear  girl — ^you  know,  it's  all 
she  lives  for.  However,  she'll  be  back  at  it,  I'm  glad 
to  say,  at  the  old  place,  in  the  morning.  Our  friends 
are  just  gone — couldn't  stand  the  climate — said  it  gave 
them  sore  throats — and  Kathleen's  gone  off  to  say 
good-bye  to  them  at  the  station.' 

*  That's  fortunate,*  Arnold  answered  a  little  stiffly, 
feeling,  somehow,  a  dim  consciousness  that,  against 
his  will,  he  was  once  more  a  lord,  and  lapsing  for  the 
moment  into  his  early  bad  habit  of  society  small-talk. 

*  For  the  lights  on  the  Canal  have  been  lovely  the  last 
three  days,  and  I've  regretted  so  much  Miss  Hessle- 
grave  should  have  missed  them.' 

'  Not  more  than  she  has,  I'm  sure,'  Mrs.  Hessle-- 
grave  went  on,  quite  archly,  with  her  blandest  smile — 

*  mother's  society  smirk,'  as  that  irreverent  boy  Keggie 
was  wont  to  term  it.  *  I  don't  know  why,  I'm  sure,  Mr. 
Willoughby,  but  Kathleen  has  enjoyed  her  painting  on 
the  quay  this  winter  and  spring  a  great  deal  more  than 
she  ever  before  enjoyed  it.  It's  been  »  perfect  treat  to 
her.  She  says  she  can't  bear  to  be  away  for  one  day  from 
that  dear  old  San  Trovaso.  She  just  loves  her  work » 
and  I  assure  you  she  seemed  almost  sentimentally  sad 
because  these  friends  who've  been  stopping  with  us 
kept  her  away  so  long  from  her  beloved  picture. — And 


A  MOTHER'S  DILEMMA 


>33 


from  her  fellow-artists,*  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  added  after 
a  pause,  in  some  little  trepidation,  micertain  whether 
that  last  phrase  might  not  go  just  one  step  too  far  in 
the  right  direction. 

Arnold  Willoughby  eyed  her  closely.  All  his 
dearest  suspicions  were  being  fast  aroused  ;  he  began 
to  tremble  in  his  heart  lest  somebody  had  managed  to 
pierce  the  close  disguise  with  which  he  had  so  care- 
fully and  so  long  surrounded  himself. 

'Will  Miss  Hesslegrave  be  back  by-and-by?*  he 
asked  in  a  coldly  official  tone.  *  Because,  if  she  will, 
I  should  like  to  stop  and  see  her.' 

Mrs.  Hesslegrave  jumped  at  the  chance  with  unwise 
avidity.  This  was  the  very  first  time,  in  fact,  that 
Arnold  Willoughby  had  ever  asked  to  see  her  daughter 
in  CO  many  words.     She  scented  a  proposal. 

*  Oh  yes,*  she  answered,  acquies'^ent,  with  obvious 
eagerness,  though  she  plumed  herself  inwardly  as  she 
spoke  ^upon  her  own  bland  ingenuity ;  *  Kathleen  will 
be  back  by-and-by  from  the  station,  and  will  be 
delighted  to  see  you.  I  know  there's  some  point  in  that 
last  year's  picture  she's  touching  up  that  she  said  she 
wanted  to  consult  you  about,  if  possible.  I  shall  have 
to  go  out  myself  at  four,  unfortunately — I'm  .engaged 
to  an  "at  home"  at  dear  Lady  Devonport's;  but  I  dare 
say  Kathleen  can  give  you  a  cup  of  tea  here ;  and  no 
doubt  you  and  she  can  make  yourselves  happy  to- 
gether.* 

She  beamed  as  she  said  it.  The  appointment  with 
Lady  Devonport  was  a  myth,  to  be  sure;  but  Mrs. 
Hesslegrave  thought  it  would  be  wise,  under  the 
circumstances,  to  leave  the  young  people  alone  with 
one  another.  Arnold  Willoughby's  suspicions  grew 
deeper  and  deeper.    Mrs.  Hesslegrave  was  one  ol 


<>fW*«rri»«ti  •■«>-' »«k  S*' 


m 


AT  MARKET  VALV£ 


:?; 


ir 


% 


those  transparent  people  'Those  little  deceptions  ar6 
painfully  obvious ;  he  could  eee  at  half  a  glance  some- 
thing must  have  occurred  which  gave  her  all  at  once  a 
much  more  favourable  view  of  him.  He  measured 
her  doubtfully  with  his  eye.  Mrs.  HesElegrave  in 
return  showered  her  sweetest  smile  upon  him.  She 
was  all  obsequiousness.  Then  she  begaa  to  talk  with 
ostentatious  motherly  pride  about  Kathleen.  She 
was  suck  a  good  girl !  Few  mothers  had  a  comfort 
like  that  in  their  daughters.  The  only  thing  Mrs. 
Hesslegrave  couldn't  bear  was  the  distressing  thought 
that  sooner  or  later  Kathleen  must  some  day  leave 
her.  That  would  be  a  trial.  But  there !  no  mother 
can  expect  to  keep  her  daughter  always  by  her  side : 
it  would  be  selfish,  wouldn't  it? — and  Kathleen  was 
adapted  to  make  a  good  man  so  supremely  happy. 
And  then  Mrs.  Hesslegrave,  leaning  forward  in  her 
chair,  grew  almost  confidential.  Had  Mr.  Willoughby 
noticed  that  Mr.  Mortimer,  the  rich  young  American, 
thought  so  much  of  Kathleen?  "Well,  he  certainly 
did ;  he  quite  haunted  the  house ;  though  Mrs. 
Hesslegrave  believed  in  her  heart  of  hearts  Kathleen 
didn't  really  care  one  bit  for  him.  And  she  was  a 
girl  of  such  high  principle — such  very  high  principle! 
Unless  she  truly  loved  a  man — was  fascinated, 
absorbed  in  him — she  never  would  marry  him, 
though  he  were  as  rich  as  Croesus.  Kathleen  meant 
to  come  back  by  the  Zattere,  she  believed;  and  she 
knew  Mr.  Mortimer  would  be  waiting  there  to  see  her; 
he  always  hung  about  and  waited  to  see  her  every- 
where* But  Kathleen  was  such  a  romantic,  poetical- 
minded  girl !  She  would  rather  take  the  man  of  her 
choice,  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  believed — with  an  impressive 
nod  of  the  coffee-coloured  Honiton  head-dress — than 


A  MOTHER'S  DILEMMA 


t35 


marry  the  heir  to  all  the  estates  in  England,  if  he 
didn't  happen  to  please  her  fancy. 

As  she  maundered  on,  floundering  further  into  the 
mire  each  moment,  Arnold  "Willoughby's  conviction 
that  something  had  gone  wrong  grew  deeper  and 
deeper  with  every  sentence.  He  shuffled  uneasily  on 
his  chair.  For  the  first  vime  since  he  had  practically 
ceased  to  be  an  Earl,  he  saw  a  British  mamma  quite 
obviously  paying  court  to  him.  He  would  have  liked 
to  go,  indeed,  this  queer  talk  made  him  feel  so 
awkward  and  uncomfortable  ;  it  reminded  him  of  the 
days  when  adulation  was  his  bane:  more  still,  it 
jarred  against  his  ser•^e  of  maternal  dignity.  But 
he  couldn't  go,  somehow.  Now  the  doubt  was  once 
aroused,  he  must  wait  at  least  till  Kathleen  returned 
— that  he  might  see  her,  and  be  rid  of  it. .  Yet  all 
this  strange  dan^rling  of  inartistically-wrought  flies 
boiore  the  victim'  ^  eye  was  disagreeably  familiar  to 
him.  He  had  l.eard  a  round  dozen  of  Mayfair 
mammas  talk  so  to  him  of  their  daughters,  and 
always  in  tl^e  same  pretended  confidential  strain, 
when  he  was  an  Earl  and  a  catch  in  London  society ; 
though  he  confessed  to  himself  with  a  shudder  that 
he  had  never  yet  heard  anybody  do  it  quite  so 
fatuously,  transparently,  and  woodenly  as  Kathleen's 
mother.  She,  poor  soul !  went  on  with  bland  self- 
satisfaction,  convinced  in  her  own  soul  she  was 
making  the  running  for  Kathleen  in  the  most  masterly 
fashion,  and  utterly  unaware  of  the  disgust  she 
wap  rousing  in  Arnold  Willoughby's  distracted 
bosom. 

At  last,  Arnold's  suspicions  could  no  longer  be 
'concealed.  The  deeper  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  probed,  the 
more  firmly  convinced  did  her  patient  become  that 


:«.*■><•--■-«(?  .'iiiiu.- 


136 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


she  had  somehow  surprised  his  inmost  secret,  and 
was  trying  all  she  knew  to  capture  him  *or  Kathleen ; 
and  trying  most  ineptly.  This  sudden  change  of 
front  from  her  attitude  of  sullen  non-recognition  to 
one  of  ardent  sycophancy  roused  all  his  bitterest  and 
most  cynical  feelings.  Was  this  day-dream,  then, 
doomed  to  fade  as  his  earlier  one  had  faded  ?  Was 
Kathleen,  the  sweet  Kathleen  he  had  invested  to 
himself  in  his  fervid  fancy  with  all  the  innocent 
virtues,  to  crush  his  heart  a  second  time  as  Lady 
Sark  had  once  crushed  it?  Was  she,  too,  a  self- 
seeker  ?  Did  she  know  who  he  was,  and  what  title 
he  bore  ?  Was  she  allowing  him  to  make  love  to  her 
lor  his  money  (such  as  it  was)  and  his  earldom  ? 

With  a  sudden  resolve,  he  determined  to  put  the 
question  to  the  proof  forthwith.  He  knew  Mrs. 
Hesslegrave  well  enough  to  know  she  could  never 
control  her  face  or  her  emotions.  Whatever  passed 
within,  that  quick  countenance  betrayed  to  the  most 
casual  observer.  So,  at  a  pause  in  the  conversation 
(when  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  was  just  engaged  in  wonder- 
ing to  herself  what  would  be  a  good  fresh  subject  to 
start  next  with  an  Earl  in  disguise  whom  you  desired 
to  captivate),  Arnold  turned  round  to  her  sharply, 
and  asked  with  a  rapid  swoop,  which  fairly  took  her 
ofif  her  guard :  *  Have  you  seen  the  English  papers  ? 
Do  you  know  what's  being  done  in  this  Axminster 
peerage  case  ?' 

It  was  a  bold  stroke  of  policy;  but  it  committed 
him  to  nothing,  for  the  subject  v/as  a  common  one, 
and  it  was  justified  by  the  result.  Mrs.  Hesslegrave, 
full  herself  of  this  very  theme,  looked  up  at  him  in 
astonishment,  hardly  Imowing  how  to  take  ii  She 
gave  a  little  start,  and  trembled  quite  visibly.    In 


m^^^^^fm^^^^f^pmrngm 


A  MOTHER'S  DILEMMA 


137 


her  perplexity,  indeed,  she  clapped  her  hand  to  her 
mouth,  a&  one  will  often  do  when  the  last  subject  on 
earth  one  expected  to  hear  broached  is  suddenly 
sprung  upon  one.  The  movement  was  unmistakable. 
So  was  the  frightened  and  hesitating  way  in  which 
Mrs.  Hesslegrave  responded  as  quickly  as  she  could : 
'  Oh  yes — that  is  to  say,  no — well,  we  haven't  seen 
much  about  it.  But — the  young  man's  dead,  of 
course — or,  do  you  think  he's  living  ?  I  mean — well, 
really,  it's  so  difficult,  don't  you  know,  in  such  a 
perplexing  case,  to  make  one's  mind  up  about  it.* 

She  drew  out  her  handkerchief  and  wiped  her  fore- 
head in  her  confusion.  She  would  have  given  ten 
pounds  that  moment  to  have  Kathleen  by  her  side  to 
prompt  and  instruct  her.  Arnold  Willoughby  pre- 
served a  face  of  sphinx-like  indifferenca.  How 
dreadful  that  he  should  have  boarded  her  with  that 
difficult  and  dangerous  subject !  What  would  Kath- 
leen wish  her  to  do  ?  Ought  she  to  pretend  to  ignore 
it  all,  or  did  he  mean  her  to  recognise  him  ? 

*Is  he  dead  or  living?  Which  do  you  think?' 
Arnold  asked  again,  gazing  hard  at  her. 

Mrs.  Hesslegrave  quailed.  It  was  a  trying  moment. 
People  oughtn't  to  lay  such  traps  for  poor  innocent 
old  women,  whose  only  desire,  after  all,  is  the  perfectly 
natural  one  to  see  their  daughters  well  and  creditably 
married.  She  looked  back  at  her  questioner  witn  a 
very  frightened  air.  - 

*  Well,  of  course,  you  know,*  she  faltered  out,  with 
a  glimmering  perception  of  the  fact  that  she  was 
irrevocably  committing  herself  to  a  dangerous  position. 
*  If  it  comes  to  that,  you  must  know  better  than  any- 
one.' 

'Why  BO?*    Arnold    Willoughby    persisted.     Ho 


Xfi 


138 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


wasn't  going  to  say  a  word  either  way  to  compromise 
his  own  incognito;  but  he  was  determined  to  find 
out  just  exactly  how  much  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  knew 
about  the  matter  of  his  identity. 

Mrs.  Hesslegrave  gazed  up  at  him  with  tears  rising 
fast  in  her  poor  puzzled  eyes. 

*0h,  what  shall  I  do?*  she  cried,  wringing  her 
hands  in  her  misery  and  perplexity.  *  How  cruel 
you  are  to  try  me  so!  What  ought  I  to  answer? 
I'm  afraid  Kathleen  will  be  so  dreadfully  angry  with 
me.* 

*  Why  angry  ?'  Arnold  Willoughby  asked  once  more, 
his  heart  growing  like  a  stone  within  him  as  he  spoke. 
Then,  the  worst  was  true.  This  was  a  deliberate  con- 
spiracy. 

*  Because,'  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  blurted  out,  *  Kathleen 
told  me  I  wasn't  on  any  account  to  mention  a  word  of 
all  this  to  you  or  to  anybody.  She  told  me  that  was 
imperative.  She  said  it  would  spoil  all— those  were 
her  very  words ;  she  said  it  would  spoil  all ;  and  she 
begged  me  not  to  mention  it.  And  now  I'm  afraid 
I  have  spoiled  all !  Oh,  Mr.  Willoughby  —  Lord 
Axminster,  I  mean — for  Heaven's  sake,  don't  be 
angry  with  me.  Don't  say  I've  spoiled  all !  Don't 
say  so  !     Don't  reproach  me  with  it !'  *    . 

*  That  you  certainly  have,*  Arnold  answered  with 
disdain,  growing  colder  and  visibly  colder  each 
moment.  *  You've  spoiled  more  than  you  know — two 
lives  that  might  otherwise  perhaps  have  been  happy. 
And  yet — it's  best  so.  Better  wake  up  to  it  now  than 
wake  up  to  it — afterwards.  Miss  Hesslegrave  has  been 
less  wise  and  circumspect  in  this  matter,  though, 
than  in  the  rest  of  her  conduct.  She  took  me  in  com- 
pletely.   And  if  she  hadn't  been  so  ill-advised  as  to 


A  MOTHER'S  DILEMMA 


139 


confide  her  conclusions  and  suspicions  to  you,  why, 
she  might  very  likely  have  taken  me  in  for  ever.  As 
it  is,  this  dclaircisaement  has  come  in  good  time.  No 
harm  has  yet  been  done.  No  word  has  yet  passed. 
An  hour  or  two  later,  the  result,  I  dare  say,  might 
have  been  far  more  serious.' 

*  She  didn't  tell  me,*  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  burst  out, 
anxious,  now  the  worst  had  come,  to  make  things 
easier  for  Kathleen,  and  to  retrieve  her  failure.  '  It 
wasn't  she  who  told  me.  I  found  it  out  for  myself— 
that  is,  through  somebody  else ' 

'J'ound  out  whatV  Arnold  asked  coldly,  fixing  his 
eye  upon  hers  with  a  stony  glare. 

Mrs.  Hesslegrave  looked  away  from  him  in  abject 
terror.     That  glance  of  his  froze  her. 

*  Why,  found  out  that  you  were  Lord  Axminster,* 
she  answered  with  one  burst,  not  knowing  what  to 
make  of  him.  *  She  knew  it  all  along,  you  know ;  but 
she  never  told  w\  or  betrayed  your  secret.  She  never 
even  mentioned  it  to  me,  her  mother.  She  kept  it 
quite  faithfully.  She  was  ever  so  wise  about  it.  I 
couldn't  imagine  why  she — well,  took  so  much  notice 
of  a  man  I  supposed  to  be  nothing  but  a  common 
sailor ;  and  it  was  only  yesterday,  or  the  day  before, 
I  discovered  by  accident  she  had  known  it  all  along, 
and  had  recognised  the  born  gentleman  under  all  dis- 
guises.' 

Mrs.  Hesslegrave  thought  that  last  was  a  trump 
card  to  play  on  Kathleen's  behalf.  But  Arnold  Wil- 
loughby  rose. 

*Well,  you  may  tell  Miss  Hesslegrave,'  he  said 
stiffly,  *  that  if  she  thought  she  was  going  to  marry 
an  English  Earl,  and  live  like  a  Countess,  she  was 
very  much  mistaken.    That  was  wholly  an  error. 


■:#« 


r 


140 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


The  man  who  loved  her  till  ten  minutes  ago — the 
man  she  seemed  to  love — the  man  who,  thinking  she 
loved  him,  came  here  to  ask  for  her  hand  this  very 
afternoon,  and  whom  she  would  no  doubt  have 
accepted  under  that  painful  misapprehension — is  and 
means  to  remain  a  common  sailor.  She  has  made 
a  mistake — that's  all.  She  has  miscalculated  her 
chances.  It's  fortunate,  on  the  whole,  that  mistake 
and  miscalculation  have  gone  no  farther.  If  I  had 
married  her  under  the  misapprehension  which  seems 
to  have  occurred,  she  might  have  had  in  the  end  a 
very  bitter  awakening.  Such  a  misfortune  has  been 
averted  by  your  lucky  indiscretion.  You  may  say 
good-bye  for  me  to  Miss  Hesslegrave  hen  she  returns. 
It  is  not  my  intention  now  to  remain  any  longer  in 
Venice.' 

'  But  you'll  stop  and  see  Kathleen !'  Mrs.  Hessle- 
grave exclaimed,  awe- struck. 

*  No,  thank  you,*  Arnold  answered,  taking  his  hat 
in  his  hand.  '  What  you  tell  me  is  quite  enough.  It 
is  my  earnest  wish,  after  the  error  that  has  occurred, 
never  as  long  as  I  live  to  set  eyes  on  her  again.  You 
may  give  her  that  message.  You  have,  indeed, 
spoiled  all.    It  is  she  herself  who  said  it  1' 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


A    MISSING    LOVER* 


*TwAs  in  bitter  disappointment  that  Arnold  Willoughby 
strode  away  from  the  Hesslegraves'  door  that  afternoon 
in  Venice.  For  the  second  time  in  his  life  his  day- 
4ream  he^d  vanished.    And  the  new  bubble  had  burs^ 


A  MISSING  LOVER 


141 


:/;■ 


even  more  painfully  than  the  old  one.  He  was  young, 
he  said  to  himself,  when  he  fell  in  love  with  Blanche 
Middleton.  With  a  boy's  simplicity,  he  mistook  the 
mere  blushing  awkwardness  and  uncertainty  of  the 
ingdmie  for  innocence  of  mind  and  purity  of  purpose. 
He  had  a  rude  awakening  when  he  saw  Lady  Sark 
sell  herself  for  money  and  title,  and  develop  into  one 
of  the  vainest  and  showiest  among  the  heartless  clan 
of  professional  beauties.  But  this  time,  he  had  said 
to  his  own  heart,  he  was  older  and  wiser.  No  such 
hasty  mistakes  for  him  nowadays !  He  knew  the 
difference  now  between  the  awkward  bashfulness  of 
the  frightened  school-girl  and  the  pure  white  integrity 
of  a  noble-minded  woman.  Bit  by  bit,  Kathleen 
Hesslegrave  had  won  back  the  soured  misogynist  to  a 
belief  in  her  sex,  in  its  goodness,  in  its  unselfishness, 
in  its  nobility  of  nature.  He  knew  she  could  have 
married  Bufus  Mortimer  if  she  wished;  but  he 
believed  she  had  refused  him  for  the  penniless  sailor's 
sake.  It  was  because  he  believed  her  capable  of  real 
disinterested  affection  like  that,  that  he  had  fallen  in 
love  with  Kathleen  Hesslegrave. 

And  now,  what  a  disillusion !  He  found  he  had  been 
mistaken  in  her  from  the  very  beginning.  The  woman 
whom  he  had  thought  so  far  raised  above  her  fellows 
.  that  she  could  love  a  struggling  artist,  without  past, 
without  future,  for  his  own  sake  alone,  turned  out, 
after  all,  to  be  an  intriguer,  more  calculating  and 
more  deceitful  in  her  ^vay  than  Lady  Sark  herself 
had  been.  Kathleen  must  have  known  from  the 
beginning  that  the  man  whose  advances  she  had 
accepted  with  so  much  blushing  uncertainty  and  with 
such  pretty  coyness  was  really  Lord  Axminster.  She 
^ad  been  saying  those  sweet  things,  about  respecting 


*• 


143 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


him  so  much  and  not  caring  for  rank  or  wealth  or 
position,  because  she  thought  that  was  the  way  that 
would  lead  her  to  a  coronet.  With  incredible  cunning 
and  deceptiveness,  she  had  managed  to  hide  from  him 
her  knowledge  of  hiB  original  position,  and  to  assume 
a  sort  of  instinctive  shrinking  from  his  lowly  calling, 
which  she  allowed  her  love  and  respect  to  overcome, 
as  it  were,  quite  visibly  before  his  eyes,  with  consum- 
mate cleverness.  As  a  piece  of  fine  acting  in  real  life 
it  was  nothing  short  of  admirable.  If  that  girl  were 
to  go  upon  the  stage  now,  Arnold  said  to  himself 
bitterly,  she  would  make  her  fortune.  Those  modest 
side-glances;  those  dexterously  summoned  blushes; 
that  timid  demeanour  at  first,  giving  way  with  fuller 
acquaintance  to  an  uncontrollable  affection,  so  strong 
that  it  compelled  her,  against  her  will,  as  it  seemed, 
to  overlook  the  prejudices  of  birth,  and  to  forget  the 
immense  gulf  in  artificial  position — oh,  as  acting  it 
was  marvellous !    But  to  think  it  was  only  that ! 

Arnold  Willoughby's  brain  reeled.  Ah,  why  could 
he  never  cast  this  birthright  of  false  adulation  and 
vile  sycophancy  behind  him?  Why  could  he  never 
stand  out  before  the  world  on  his  merits  as  a  man, 
and  be  accepted  or  rejected  for  himself  alone,  without 
the  intervention  of  this  perpetual  reference  to  his  arti- 
ficial value  and  his  place  in  the  peerage  ? 

And  the  secrecy  of  it,  too!  The  baseness!  The 
privy  planning  and  plotting!  Why,  this  woman, 
whom  he  imagined  all  frankness  and  candour,  with  a 
heart  as  straightforward  as  that  open  brave  face  of 
hers,  had  concocted  this  vile  trap  to  catch  a  coronet 
unawares,  all  by  herself,  unaided,  and  had  concealed 
her  inmost  thoughts  from  her  own  mother  even. 
There  was  s^  cold-blooded  deliberateness  fibout  it  all 


^iMPpipiPPIiifi 


l?P^!<?fTlRP'P'^'!'P5Plf^^ 


n 


A  MISSING  LOVER 


143 


which  disgusted  and  disillusioned  Arnold  Willoughby 
on  the  first  blush  of  it.  He  had  gone  into  that  house 
that  afternoon  in  a  lover's  fever  and  with  a  lover's 
fervour,  saying  to  himself  as  he  crossed  the  thres- 
hold: 

*  There  is  none  like  her,  none ;  I  shall  ask  her  this 
very  day ;  I  could  risk  my  life  for  her  with  joy ;  I 
could  stake  my  existence  on  her  goodness  and  purity !' 

And  now — he  came  out  of  it  coldly  numb  and 
critical.  He  hated  to  think  he  had  been  so  readily 
deceived  by  a  clever  woman's  wiles.  He  hated  and 
despised  himself.  Never  again  while  he  lived  would 
he  trust  a  single  one  of  them.  Tl  ir  most  innocent 
smile  hides  their  blackest  treachery. 

It's  a  way  men  have,  when  they  are  out  of  conceit 
for  a  time  with  their  wives  or  their  sweethearts. 

As  for  poor  Mrs.  Hesslegrave,  the  unoffending  cause 
of  all  this  lamentable  misapprehension,  she  sat  by 
herself,  meanwhile,  wringing  her  hands  in  impotent 
despair,  in  her  own  drawing-room,  and  wondermg 
when  Kathleen  would  come  in  to  comfort  her.  Each 
minute  seemed  an  hour.  "What  could  be  keeping 
Kathleen  ?  As  a  rule,  the  dijar  child  came  back  so 
soon  from  such  errands  as  this  to  her  beloved  work  ; 
for  Kathleen  was  never  so  happy  as  when  painting  or 
sketching ;  and  she  wrought  with  a  will,  both  for 
love's  sake  and  money's.  But  to-day  she  was  some- 
how unaccountably  delayed.  Her  stars  were  unpro- 
pitious.  And  the  real  cause  of  the  delay,  as  fate 
would  have  it,  was  one  of  those  petty  circumstances 
upon  which  our  lives  all  hinge.  She  had  gone  round 
on  her  way  home  by  the  Fondamenta  delle  Zattere 
as  a  woman  in  love  will  do,  expecting  to  find  Arnold 
Willoughby  at  work  on  his  canvas  there,  and  hoping 


■j  ■:! 


iSS&SW.*^" 


^^^?W^r%^: 


;      AT  MARKET  VALUE 

'**  M.„t  had  brought  her  back  to 

to  seem  as  if  mere  ''«'''^,«"' Hur Lg  the  Valentines 
the  place  she  had  -b;"^»"f  *  *",  t4e  to  go  ^ithou' 
visit.    Three  days  was  so  long  ^^^  ^^^ 

^eingArnoldt    ^ut  "^^^.^^^J^^^^^  upon  his 

fallen  in  mth  Bufus  ^'  i„g  her  object, 

christening  scene ;  »"f^™  yf  nature,  to  aid  her 
and  gen«°"t 'Td  C  l^er  talking  long  in  iron 
in  her  love  affair,  had  kepi  "  ,      ^'^^  belief  that 

'^i  the  picture  he  was  P^'-Z'^^fthat  he  was  doing 
An>old  would  Blif  ly  *""  "^'4  her  presence  there 
her  a  kindness  by  ^^"I'Z  to  misconstruction, 
seem  more  natural  and  less  ope  mischance, 

'\et,  as  often  ^'^Vr-\^J^dete^UA  his  own 
Mortimer's  very  an^ety^^^^lP^^, 
purpose.    It  ^-as  the  ^"_  ,,y  his  well-intentioned 
l^inlifetodoasmuchh;-»>;  by  their  deliberate 
efforts  as  many  worse  u» 

n"^'"^-  •„„«  tran  Kathleen  fell  readily 

Into  this  ^<^ff°^'^Zna  as  she  could,  in  the 

enough,  and  waited  on  « '»  ^ ,  ,^     ^^m  turn  up 

vain  hope  that  ^^HJS  it  Beemed  clear  that 

sooner  or  later.   But  wi^  aUas      ^^^^^^,^  ^  ^^^^^  . 

he  was  taking  an  f «"»°"  ™;  „ger  of  a  lift  home  m 
at  all,  she  accepted  Mo~  «  ««  ^  ^  ^y 

his  gondola,  and,  ha.mg  wasted  y^^  ^^^^^  ^ 

this  time,  went  in  o"  ;«^J^J   -^    the    Calle    San 
'        ri:"^SrUhe^e\ayed  her  return  to  her 

mother's.  ^  ^ent  upstairs  she  was 

^en  she  ^^tJ^XX^ve  rocking  herself  up 

astonished  to  find  Mrs.  tles^.  ^^^  U^e  yellow 

and  down  'l«tf'>'<^'y"^,,t  stage  rf  disorder,  which 
Honitonhead._dreBsmal.st^stege^^^^^^^^ 


beto 


toeda  long  BpeU  of  very  vigorous 


J.W-*  I 


.JJJ'.  IV 


i4  MISSING  LOVER 


»45 


mother  dear,'  she  cried  in  alarm,  *  what  has  happened 
since  I  went  out?    You  haven't  had  another  letter 
from  Keggie,  asking  for  money,  have  you  ?* 
Mrs.  H    4egrave  broke  down. 

*  I  wish  I  had,'  she  answered,  sobbing.  *  I  wish  it 
was  only  that!  I  wish  it  was  Eeggie!  Oh,  Kitty, 
Kitty,  Kitty,  how  am  I  ever  to  tell  you  ?  He's  been 
here  since  you  went  out.  And  you'll  never,  never 
forgive  me.* 

*  He's  been  here  ?'  Kathleen  repeated,  not  knowing 
what  her  mother  could  mean.  *  Eeggie's  been  here  ? 
To-day?    Not  at  this  house — in  Venice  !' 

*No,  no,  no!  not  Eeggie,'  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  an- 
swered, rocking  herself  up  and  down  still  more 
vigorously  than  before.  *  Mr.  Willoughby — Lord 
Axminster.' 

In  a  second  the  colour  fled  from  Kathleen's  cheek 
as  if  by  magic.  I  r  heart  grew  cold.  She  trembled 
all  over. 

'  Mr.  Willoughby !'  she  cried,  clasping  her  bloodless 
hands.  Every  nerve  in  her  body  quivered.  Never  till 
that  moment  did  she  know  how  far  her  love  had 
carried  her.  *  Oh,  mother,  what  did  you  say?  What 
did  he  do  ?    What  has  happened  ?' 

*  He's  gone  !'  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  cried  feebly,  wring- 
ing her  hands  in  her  distress.  *  He's  gone  for  good 
and  all.    He  told  me  to  say  good-bye  to  you.* 

*  Good-bye ! '  Kathleen  echoed,  horror-struck.  *  Good- 
bye !  Oh,  mother  !  Where's  he  going,  then  ?  What 
can  it  mean  ?    This  is  very,  very  sudden.' 

*  I  don't  know,'  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  answered,  burst- 
ing afresh  into  tears.  '  But  he  said  I'd  spoiled  all. 
He  said  so  more  than  once.  And  he  told  me  it  was 
you  yourself  who  said  so.* 


%  -mi^^^ 


AT  MARKBT  VALVE 


"*  "'    "[       TTctMeen  was  too  agitate* 

Tor  a  minute  or  '"".^^^'"^.t  ^ay  what  exactly 
evin  t»  inquire  i^/^J  f^^f^u  sbl  knew  was  a 
had  happened.  JuBt  ^^^  6™'  th^t  some  tumble 
vague  consciousness  of  fate,  a  s«^  ^^ 

blow  had  fallen  upon  her-     ^e     ^    j^,„old  was 
^r^d   son^e   ^^\^^'^Z^Ll    But  slowly- 
gone -gone,  ''•^"f  .^"it^^an  to  dawn  upon  her 
as  she  thought  of  it  aU  it  te  ^^^^^^  g  at        . 

tha*  must  have  ^aprr^^^  V  effort,  and  drew  ,    . 
heart,  she  hardened  herseu  ^  Mrs.  Bessie-     ,  -' 

XU  from  the  relnctot  and^         ^^^^  ^aro  m  - : 
g^avJa  full  and  «»-?  r'^^^^fHesslegi-ave  allowed 
this  misfortune     ^''^y  ^:i^i„g  scene  to  be  wrung 
the  whole  painful  and  h^Uu     g^  ^^^  ^^         j^^j 
out  of  her,  piecemeal.     AB«o  She  did  not 

Kathleen  stood  "P^^*  7„U  had  gone  too  deep 
reproach  her  '""''l^ ' ,  ^f  ^er  very  sUence  was  more 
KiiVr  Hi^ve  thL  any  number  of 

her  UUe  some  wild  and  ^^"*«*,f  misapprehension  is 
at  once  and  Bee  ^^^■}'^\  djan't  know  who  he  was 

bz  sf Sb-  ^  --' «°  -' ""  '"^ 

anV  t  T^vnr»rifttv  waB  seveiely 

"Mrs.  Hesslegrave-s  sense  of  p^e^  ^^^  ^^,  , 

outraged.    Not  only  was  «  a  ^.^^^  ^ 

voung  lady  eould  have  ^^^  ^aUor ;  but  it 

'tasked,  and  f-'^^f  >^een X'ld  dream  of  going 

if 


H^wpifpragiw^ 


iMlil AH:U  .a|l|j^»W>W|J!*»J^.|l5|Wp'. 


i4  MISSING  LOVER 


147 


him,  and  asking  him  to  call  romid  for  Iho  fartlier 
clearing  up  of  this  painful  entanglement. 

*  Oh,  my  dear,'  she  cried,  drawing  back,  *  you're  not 
surely  going  to  call  for  him !  It  would  look  so  bad  ! 
Do  you  think  it  would  be  right  ?  Do  you  think  it 
would  be  womanly  ?'  ^  . 

*Yes,  I  do!'  Kathleen  answered  with  unwonted 
boldness.  'Bight  and  womanly  to  the  last  degree. 
Most  right  and  most  womanly.  Mother  dear,  I  don't 
blame  you;  you  did  what  you  thought  best  in  my 
interest,  as  you  imagined ;  but  you  have  left  him  under 
a  cruel  misapprehension  of  my  character  and  motives 
— a  misapprehension  that  would  be  dreadful  for  me 
to  bear  with  anyone,  but  ten  thousand  times  worse 
with  a  nature  like  Arnold  Willoughby's ;  and  I  can't 
sit  down  under  it.  I  can't  rest  till  I've  seen  him  and 
told  him  how  utterly  mistaken  he  is  about  me.  There's 
no  turning  back  now.    I  must  and  shall  see  him.' 

And  in  her  own  heart  she  said  to  herself  a  great 
deal  more  than  that — *  I  must  and  shall  marry  him.' 

So,  with  face  on  fire  and  eager  steps  that  never 
paused,  she  rushed  hotly  down  the  stairs  and  out  into 
the  Piazza.  The  pigeons  crowded  round  her  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.  Thence  she  took  the  narrow 
lane  that  led  most  directly,  by  many  bridges,  to  the 
little  salt-fish  shop,  and  went  to  make  her  first  call  on 
the  man  of  her  choice  at  his  own  lodgings. 

Little  Gecca  was  at  the  door,  playing  with  a  big 
new  doll.  She  looked  up  with  a  smile  at  the  beautiful 
lady,  whom  she  recognised  as  the  person  she  had 
^(  en  out  walking  one  day  with  *  our  Inglese.' 

'Is  the  signore  at  home?'  Kathleen  ajked,  too 
deeply  moved  to  return  the  child's  smile,  yet  touching 
her  golden  head  gently. 


am 


Aif*-^:---  u^^Ak.  "^•1  ^*li.t>VL.. 


"'i-jifm  ■*  c  ttXy'--*^ 


BfJ^SPwP^iPPipi 


14? 


AT  StAtiki^T  VALVE 


The  little  one  looked  up  at  her  again  with  all  thd 
Bjiucy  southern  confidingness.  *  No,  he  isn't/  she 
answered,  dimpling.  '  The  sighore's  gone  away ;  but 
he  gave  me  two  lire  before  he  went,  don't  you  see,  and 
I  bought  this  pretty  doll  with  it,  at  neighbour 
Giacomo'a.  Isn't  it  a  pretty  one?  And  it  cost  all 
two  lire/ 

'Gone  away?'  Kathleen  echoed,  a  cold  thrill  coming 
over  her.    *  Gone  away  ?    Not  from  Venice?' 

The  child  nodded  and  puffed  out  her  Ups. 

*  Si,  si,'  she  said,  *  from  Venice.'  And  then  she 
went  on  singing  in  her  childish  nursery  rhyme : 

•  Vate  a  far  una  barca  o  una  batela ;       ^      V  '. 
Co  ti  I'a  fata,  butila  in  mar  ;  ^  ^  f;; 

,  La  ti  condurra  in  Venezia  bela.'  .:  H  '  ■  ? 

'  But  he  hasn't  done  that,'  she  added  in  her  baby-like 
prattle.  'He's  taken  his  boat  and  gone  away  from 
Venice ;  away  from  Venice ;  from  Venezia  bela ;  right 
away,  right  away  from  Venezia  bela,' 

Kathleen  stood  for  a  moment  reeling.  The  child's 
words  unnerved  her.  She  had  hard  work  to  restrain 
herself  from  fainting  then  and  there.  A  terrible 
weakness  seemed  to  break  over  her  suddenly.  Gone  ! 
and  with  that  fatal  misapprehension  on  his  mind. 
Oh,  it  was  too,  too  cruel.  She  staggered  into  the 
shop.    With  an  effort  she  burst  out : 

*  The  signore,  your  lodger — the  Inglese — Signor 
Willoughby  ?' 

A  large  young  woman  of  the  florid  Venetian  type, 
broad  of  face  and  yellow  of  hair,  like  a  vulgarized 
Titian,  was  sitting  behind  the  counter  knitting  away 
at  a  coloured  head-dress :  she  nodded  and  looked 
grave.    Like  all  Italians,  she  instantly  suspected  a 


f'-.rwwr^''^   '■^f^'^WW^^^'^T^^W    ^f^^^'??^ 


'yWSfPW^f'T-    I"'-  '?-«?''.'■>*  •'  ^'^  •  /r.vft.ii,  ■,.*)™,viW<i'MW)ll 


i4  MISSING  LOVER 


140 


love-tragedy,  of  the  kind  with  which  she  herself  was 
familiar. 

*  Is  gone !'  she  assented  in  a  really  sympathetic 
tone.  *  Si,  si,  is  gone,  signora.  The  little  one  says 
the  truth.    Is  gone  this  very  evening.'      . 

'But  where?'  Kathleen  cried,  refraining  with  a 
struggle  from  wringing  her  poor  hands,  and  repress- 
ing the  rising  tears  before  the  stranger's  face  with 
visible  difficulty. 

The  bountiful-looking  Italian  woman  spread  her 
hands  open  by  her  side  with  a  demonstrative  air. 

*  Who  knows  ?'  she  answered  placidly.  *  'Tis  the  way 
with  these  seafarers.  A  bella  ragazza  in  every  port, 
they  say ;  one  here,  one  there ;  one  in  Venice,  one  in 
London — and  perhaps,  for  all  we  know,  one  in  Buenos 
Ayres,  Calcutta,  Eio. — But  he  may  write  to  you, 
signora  !    He  may  come  back  again  to  Italy !' 

Kathleen  shook  her  head  sadly.  Much  as  the 
woman  misunderstood  the  situation,  reading  into  it 
the  ideas  and  habits  of  her  own  class  and  country, 
Kathleen  felt  she  meant  to  be  kind,  and  was  grateful 
for  even  that  mechanical  kindness  at  such  a  terrible 
moment.  ^    :        ,^   "l     -    . 

*He  will  not  return,'  she  answered  despairingly, 
with  a  terrible  quiver  in  her  voice.  *  But  it  wasn't 
that  I  wanted.  I  wanted  to  speak  with  him  before  he 
went,  and — and  to  clear  up  a  misconception. — Which 
way  has  he  gone,  do  you  know  ?  By  sea  or  by  land  ? 
The  port  or  the  railway-station  ?' 

There  was  time  even  yet ;  for  at  that  moment,  as 
it  chanced,  Arnold  Willoughby  was  still  engaged  in 
registering  his  luggage  for  Genoa,  whence  he  hoped 
to  get  employment  on  some  homeward-bound  steamer. 
And  if  the  woman  had  told  the  truth,  much  troublo 


'  *-.« 


ISO 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


would  have  been  averted.  But  truth  is  an  article  of 
luxury  in  Italy.  The  vulgarized  Titian  looked  at 
Kathleen  searchingly,  yet  with  a  pitying  glance. 

'  Oh,  he's  gone/  she  answered,  nodding  her  head ; 
'he's  gone  altogether.  He  got  out  his  box  and  his 
pictures  quite  suddenly  just  now;  and  our  Pietro 
rowed  him  off  to  a  steamer  in  the  harbour.  And  I 
saw  the  steamer  sail ;  she's  at  the  Lido  by  this  time. 
But  he'll  write ;  he'll  write,  make  sure !  Don't  take 
it  to  heart,  signora.' 

Kathleen  pressed  her  hand  to  her  bosom,  to  still  its 
throbbing,  and  went  forth  into  the  street.  All  was 
black  as  night  for  her.  She  staggered  home  in  a 
maze.  Her  head  reeled  unspeakably.  But  as  soon 
as  she  was  gone,  the  woman  turned  to  a  man  who 
lounged  among  the  packing-cases  at  the  back  of  the 
shop,  with  a  smile  of  triumph. 

*  He  was  a  good  fellow,'  she  said,  with  true  Southern 
tolerance,  'and  I  wasn't  going  to  tell  her  he'd  gone  by 
train  to  Genoa.  Not  likely  I  should !  You  know 
what  she  wanted  ?  She  would  have  stuck  a  knife  into 
him.  I  saw  it  in  her  eye,  and,  aha  !  I  prevented  it. 
But  sailors  will  be  sailors  ;  and,  Signor  Yillabi,  say  I, 
was  always  a  pleasant  one.  Why  should  I  wish  him 
harm?  He  liked  little  Cecca,  and  paid  his  bill 
punctually.  She's  not  the  first  signora,  we  all  know 
well,  who  has  been  deceived  and  deserted  by  a  good- 
looking  sailor.  But  what  would  you  have  ?  'Tis  the 
way  of  them  !  Mariners,  mariners — like  the  gulls  of 
Marano  1    Here  to-day,  and  there  to-morrow  1' 


|WpppiW?!P''^*W"l5f«'*^^ 


THE  AXMINSTER  PEERAGE 


tS» 


;-.''r  •":■' 


\  CHAPTER  XIV. 

IHB  AXMINSTER  PEERAGE.     - 

At  Genoa,  as  luck  would  have  it,  Arnold  Willoughby 
found*  a  place  on  a  homeward-bound  brigantine  direct 
for  London.  That  was  all  he  wanted.  He  craved  for 
action.  He  was  a  sailor  once  more,  and  had  cast  art 
behind  him.  No  more  dalliance  with  the  luxurious 
muse  of  painting.  In  the  daily  drudgery  of  the  sea, 
in  the  teeth  of  the  wind,  he  would  try  to  forget  his 
bitter  disappointment.  Hard  work  and  dog-watches 
might  suffice  to  cauterize  the  raw  surface  of  the  wound 
Kathleen  Hesslegrave  had  unwillingly  and  unwittingly 
inflicted. 

He  did  wrong  to  fly  from  her,  of  course,  without 
giving  her  at  least  the  chance  of  an  explanation ;  but, 
then,  that  was  exactly  Arnold  Willoughby's  nature. 
He  would  have  been  other  than  himself  if  he  had  not 
so  acted.  Extreme  modifiability  was  the  keynote  of 
his  character.  The  self-same  impulse  which  had 
made  him  in  the  first  instance  sink  name  and  indi- 
viduality at  a  moment's  notice,  in  order  to  become  a 
new  man  and  a  common  sailor,  made  him  also  in  the 
second  instance  rush  at  once  to  the  conclusion  that 
he  had  been  basely  deceived,  and  drove  him  to  re- 
model, without  a  second's  delay,  his  whole  scheme  of 
life  and  activity  for  the  future.  Half  gentleman,  half 
gipsy,  he  was  a  man  of  principle,  and  yet  a  creature 
of  impulse.  The  instant  he  found  his  plans  going 
hopelessly  wrong,  he  was  ready  to  alter  them  o£f-hand 
with  drastic  severity. 

And  yet,  be  said  to  himself,  it  was  never  his  ow^ 


V 


^51 


AT  MAkKET  VALU£ 


individuality  he  got  rid  of  at  all.  That  alone  persisted. 
All  these  changes  and  disguises  were  forced  upon  him, 
indeed,  by  the  difficulty  of  realizing  his  own  inner 
personality  in  a  world  which  insisted  on  accepting  him 
as  an  Earl,  instead  of  reckoning  him  up,  as  he  wished, 
at  his  intrinsic  value  as  a  human  being.  That  intrinsic 
value  Arnold  Willoughby  was  determined  to  discover 
and  appraise,  no  matter  at  what  cost  of  '  rouble  and 
disillusion ;  his  naked  worth  as  a  man  .imong  men 
was  the  only  kind  of  worth  he  cared  one  jot  or  tittle 
to  realize.  >V^ 

When  he  reached  London,  therefore,  he  decided  to 
see  what  steps  were  being  taken  in  the  vexed  question 
of  the  Axminster  peerage,  before  he  engaged  for  a 
longer  voyage  to  the  Northern  seas,  which  he  liked 
best  to  sail  in  bracing  summer  weather.  So,  on  the 
very  afternoon  of  his  discharge  from  the  brigantine, 
where  he  had  signed  for  the  single  voyage  only,  he 
walked  into  a  cofifee-house  on  the  river  bank,  and 
invested  a  ha'penny  in  an  evening  paper.  He  was 
not  long  in  coming  upon  the  item  he  wanted :  *  Ax- 
minster Peerage  Case. — This  afternoon,  the  House  of 
Lords  will  deliver  judgment  upon  the  claim  of  Algernon 
Loftus  Eedburn,  eldest  son  of  the  late  Honourable 
Algernon  Eedburn,  of  Musbury,  Devonshire,  to  the 
Earldom  of  Axminster.  The  case  is  a  romantic  one. 
It  will  be  remembered  that  the  seventh  Earl,  who  was 
a  person  of  most  eccentric  habits  and  ideas,  closely 
bordering  upon  insanity,  disappeared  without  warning 
from  London  society  * — and  so  forth,  and  so  forth. 

Arnold  set  down  the  paper,  with  a  deeper  curl  than 
usual  at  the  comer  of  his  genial  mouth.  It  '  bordered 
on  insanity,'  of  course,  for  a  bom  gentleman,  wha 
might  have  spent  his  time  in  dining,  calling,  shooting 


% 


^^v^%'^nr^n>fm^  "' 


■'M^s 


«^E»Wwm'-»e«.-.7in 


Tll£  AXmK$T^R  PEUkAG^ 


m 


grouse,  and  running  racehorses,  to  determine  upon 
doing  some  useful  work  in  the  world  1  So  very  un- 
dignified! Arnold  was  quite  familiar  by  this  time 
with  that  curious  point  of  view ;  'tis  the  point  of  view 
of  nine-tenths  of  the  world  in  this  United  Kingdom ; 
but  none  the  less,  every  time  he  saw  it  solemnly  com- 
mitted to  print,  it  amused  him  afrash  by  its  utter  in- 
congruity. The  contrast  between  the  reality  and  the 
grasp  of  life  he  obtained  in  his  chosen  vocation  of 
sailor,  with  the  shadowy  superficiality  of  the  existence 
he  had  led  in  the  days  when  he  was  still  Lord  Ax- 
minster,  made  such  criticism  seem  to  him  rather 
childish  than  unkindly. 

He  made  up  his  mind  at  once.  He  would  go  down 
to  the  House  and  see  them  play  this  little  farce  out. 
He  would  be  present  to  hear  whether,  on  the  authority 
of  the  highest  court  in  the  realm,  he  was  dead  or 
living.  He  would  watch  the  last  irrevocable  nail 
being  knocked  into  his  coffin  as  Earl  of  Axminster, 
and  would  emerge  with  the  certainty  that  some  other 
man  now  bore  the  title  which  once  was  his,  and  that 
he  was  legally  defunct  by  decision  of  Parliament. 

Go  down  to  the  House !  Then  a  little  laugh  seized 
him.  He  was  thinking  of  it  to  himself  as  he  used  to 
think  in  the  days  when  he  had  but  to  order  his 
carriage  and  drive  down  from  Eaton  Place  to  the 
precincts  of  "Westminster.  What  chance  would  there 
be  for  a  sailor  in  his  seaman's  dress  to  get  into  the 
Houae  by  mere  asking  for  a  place  ?  Not  much,  he 
confessed  to  himself.  However,  he  would  try.  There 
was  something  that  pleased  him  in  the  idea  of  the 
bare  chance  that  he  might  be  turned  back  from  the 
doors  of  the  Chamber  to  which  he  hereditarily  belonged 
on  the  day  when  he  was  to  bo  declared  no  longer  living. 


'U 


154 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


It  would  bo  funny  if  the  Lords  refused  to  lot  him  hear 
them  pronounce  their  decision  of  his  own  d^ath; 
funnier  still  if  they  solemnly  declared  him  dead  in  his 
living  presence. 

So  he  walked  by  St.  Paul's  and  the  Embankment 
to  Westminster,  and  presented  himself  at  that  well- 
known  door  where  once — nay,  where  still — he  had,  by 
law  and  descent,  the  right  of  entry.  It  was  a  private 
business  day,  he  knew,  and  their  lordships  would  only 
be  sitting  as  r  committee  of  privilege  ;  in  other  words, 
half  a  dozen  law  lords  would  have  come  down  sleei^ily, 
as  a  matter  of  duty,  to  decide  the  vexed  question  of 
the  peerage  before  them.  On  such  occasions,  the 
Strangers'  Gallery  is  never  at  all  full;  and  Arnold 
hoped  he  might  be  lucky  enough  to  corrupt  by  his 
eloquence  the  virtue  of  the  under  door-keeper.  The 
door-keeper,  however,  was  absolutely  incorruptible 
— except,  of  course,  by  gold,  which  was  too  rare 
an  object  now  for  Arnold  to  bestow  upon  him 
lightly. 

'I  don't  know  all  the  peers  by  sight,*  the  official 
said  with  some  contempt,  surveying  the  new-comer 
from  head  to  foot;  there's  peers  from  the  country 
that  turn  up  now  and  again  when  there's  important 
bills  on,  that  you  wouldn't  know  from  farmers.  Times 
like  that,  we  let  any  gentleman  in  who's  dressed  aa 
such,  and  who  says  he's  a  Markis.  But  you  ain't  a 
peer,  anyhow ;  you  ain't  got  the  cut  of  it.  Nor  you 
don't  much  look  like  a  Distinguished  Stranger.' 

And  the  door-keeper  laughed  heartily  at  his  own 
humour. 

Arnold  laughed  in  turn,  and  walked  away  discon- 
solate. He  was  just  on  the  point  of  giving  up  the 
attempt  in  despair,  when  he  saw  an  old  law  lord  enter, 


'■flil.Vpi'ViyiPIK   -'' 


j^i'^'f^^^mmiimmm 


THE  AXMINSTER  PEERAGE 


ISS 


whom  ho  know  well  by  sight  as  a  judge  of  appeal,  and 
who  had  the  reputation  of  being  a  good-humoured 
and  accessible  person.  Arnold  boarded  him  at  once 
with  a  polite  request  for  a  pass  to  the  gallery.  The 
old  peer  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

'Are  you  interested  in  the  case?'  he  asked,  seeing 
the  sailor's  garb  and  the  weather-beaten  features. 

Arnold  answered  with  truth : 

*  Well,  I  know  something  of  the  man  they  called 
Douglas  Overton.'  ** 

Lord  Helvellyn  (for  it  was  he)  scanned  the  bronzed 
face  again  with  some  show  of  interest.      - 

*  You  were  a  ship-fellow  ?'  he  asked. 

And  Arnold,  without  remembering  how  much  the 
admission  implied,  made  answer  with  truth  once 
more : 

'Yes — at  least — that  is  to  say — I  sailed  in  the 
Saucy  Sally.* 

The  old  peer  smiled  acquiescence,  and  waved  him 
to  follow  to  the  door  of  the  waiting-room.  Arnold  did 
so,  somewhat  amused  at  the  condescending  air  of  the 
new-made  peer  to  his  hereditary  companion.  In  the 
House  of  Lords  he  couldn't,  somehow,  altogether 
forget  his  traditions. 

'  Pass  this  man  to  the  gallery,'  the  old  law  lord  said 
with  a  nod  of  command  to  the  door-keeper. 

The  door-keeper  bowed  low,  and  Arnold  Willoughby 
followed  him. 

The  proceedings  in  the  House  were  short  and 
purely  formal.  The  Committee,  represented  by  one 
half-blind  old  gentleman,  read  their  report  of  privilege 
in  a  mumbling  tone;  but  Arnold  could  see  its  decision 
was  awaited  with  the  utmost  interest  by  his  cousin 
Algy,  who,  as  claimant  to  the  seat,  stood  at  the  bar  of 


v^i 


156 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


the  House  awaiting  judgment.  The  Committee  found 
that  Albert  Ogilvie  Kedburn,  seventh  Earl  of  Ax- 
minster,  was  actually  dead;  that  his  identity  with  the 
person  who  sailed  in  the  Saucy  Sally  from  Liverpool 
for  Melbourne  under  the  assumed  name  of  Douglas 
Overton  had  been  duly  proved  to  their  satisfaction ; 
that  the  Saucy  Sally  had  been  lost,  as  alleged,  in  the 
Indian  Ocean,  and  that  all  souls  on  board  had  really 
perished ;  that  amongst  the  persons  so  lost  was  Albert 
Ogilvie  Kedburn,  alias  Douglas  Overton,  seventh  Earl 
of  Axminster ;  that  Algernon  Loftus  Red  burn,  eldest 
son  of  the  Honourable  Algernon  Redburn,  deceased, 
and  grandson  of  the  fifth  Earl,  was  the  heir  to  the 
peerage ;  and  that  this  house  admitted  his  claim  of 
right,  and  humbly  prayed  Her  Majesty  to  issue  her 
gracious  writ  summoning  him  as  a  Peer  of  Parliament 
accordingly. 

Algernon  Eedburn,  below,  smiled  a  smile  of  triumph. 
But  Arnold  Willoughby,  in  th^  gallery,  felt  a  little 
shudder  pass  over  him.  It  wns  no  wonder,  indeed. 
He  had  ceased  to  exist  legally.  He  was  no  longer  his 
own  original  self,  but  in  very  deed  a  common  sfiilor. 
He  knew  that  the  estates  must  follow  the  title ;  from 
that  day  forth  he  was  a  beggar,  a  namelesa  nobody. 
Till  the  report  was  read,  he  might  have  stood  forth  at 
any  moment  and  claimed  his  ancestral  nnnie  and  his 
ancestral  acres.  Now  the  die  was  cast.  He  felt  that 
after  he  had  once  stood  by  as  he  had  stood  by  that 
day  and  allowed  himself  to  be  solemnly  adjudicated 
as  dead,  he  could  never  again  allow  himself  to  be 
resurrected.  He  should  have  spoken  then,  or  must 
for  ever  keep  silent.  It  would  be  wrong  of  him,  cruel 
of  him,  cowi.rdly  of  him  unmanly  of  him,  to  let  Algy 
and  Algy's  wife  ta)<.  iil     hce  in  the  world,  with  hia 


-ff^^*'^Sl!5B»«^v5^*" 


|P»i4Jt''iPi.4-,»iP»i'«Ail-  r- 


THE  AXMINSTER  PEERAGE 


»57 


full  knowledge  and  assent,  and  then  come  forward 
later  to  deprive  them  of  their  privilege.  He  was  now 
nothing  more  than  '  the  late  Lord  Axminster.'  That 
at  least  was  his  past ;  his  future  would  be  spent  as 
mere  Arnold  Willoughby. 

Had  Kathleen  proved  different,  he  hardly  knew 
whether,  at  the  last  moment,  he  might  not  have 
turned  suddenly  round  and  refused  so  completely  to 
burn  his  boats ;  but  as  it  was,  he  was  glad  of  it.  The 
tie  to  his  old  life,  which  laid  him  open  to  such  cruel 
disillusions  as  Kathleen  had  provided  for  him,  was 
now  broken  for  ever ;  henceforth  he  would  be  valued 
at  his  own  worth  alone  by  all  and  sundry. 

But  no  more  of  women!  If  Arnold  Willoughby 
had  been  a  confirmed  misogynist  before  he  met  Kath- 
leen Hesslegrave  by  accident  at  the  Academy  doors, 
he  was  a  thousand  times  more  so  after  this  terrible 
reaction  from  his  temporary  backsliding  into  respect- 
able society. 

He  went  down  into  the  corridor,  and  saw  Algy 
surrounded  by  a  whole  group  of  younger  peers,  who 
were  now  strolling  in  for  the  afternoon's  business. 
They  were  warmly  congratulating  him  upon  having 
secured  the  doubtful  privileges  of  which  Arnold  for  his 
part  had  been  so  anxious  to  divest  himself.  Arnold 
was  not  afraid  to  pass  quite  near  them.  Use  had 
accustomed  him  to  the  ordeal  of  scrutiny.  For  some 
years,  he  had  passed  by  hundreds  who  once  knew 
him,  in  London  streets  or  Continental  towns,  and  yet, 
with  the  solitary  exception  of  the  HoMHlegraves  (for  ho 
did  not  know  the  part  borne  in  his  recognition  by  the 
Valentines),  not  a  soul  had  over  piercud  the  successful 
disguise  with  which  he  had  surrounded  himself.  A 
few  years  before,  the  same  men  would  have  crowded 


■-i 


PM 


158 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


juofc  as  eagerly  round  tbe  seventh  as  round  the  eighth 
Earl ;  and  now,  not  a  word  of  the  last  holder  of  the 
title  j  nothing  but  congratulation  for  the  man  who 
had  supplanted  him,  and  who  stood  that  moment, 
smiling  and  radiant,  the  centre  of  a  little  group  of 
friendly  acquaintances. 

As  Arnold  paused,  half  irresolute,  near  the  doors  of 
the  House,  a  voice  that  he  knew  well  called  out 
suddenly : 

'  Hullo,  Axminster,  there  you  are !  I've  been  looking 
for  you  everywhere.* 

^nold  turned  half  round  in  surprise.  What  an 
unseasonable  interruption !  How  dreadful  that  at 
this  moment  somebody  should  have  recog'^ir  1  him  ! 
And  from  behind,  too — that  was  the  worst — for  the 
speaker  was  invisible.  Arnold  hesitated  whether  or 
not  to  run  away  without  answering  him ;  then,  with  a 
smile,  he  realized  the  true  nature  of  his  mistake.  It's 
so  strange  to  hear  another  man  called  by  the  name 
that  was  once  your  own.  But  the  voice  was  Canon 
Valentine's,  fresh  back  from  Italy,  and  the  'Axminster' 
he  was  addressing  was  not  Arnold  Willoughby,  but  the 
new-made  peer,  his  cousin  Algy.  Nevertheless,  the 
incident  made  Arnold  feel  at  once  it  was  time  to  go. 
He  was  more  afraid  of  Canon  Valentine's  recognising 
him  than  of  any  other  acquaintance :  for  the  Canon 
had  known  him  so  intimately  as  a  boy,  and  used  to 
speak  to  him  so  often  about  that  instinctive  trick  of 
his — why,  there !  as  Arnold  thought  of  it,  he  removed 
his  hand  qvicldy  from  the  lock  in  which  ii  was  twined, 
and  dodged  behind  a  little  group  of  gossiping  peers  in 
the  neighbourhood  just  in  time  to  escape  the  Canon's 
scrutiny.  But  the  Canon  didn't  see  him  ;  he  was  too 
busily  engage'"?  in  shaking  Algy's  hand— too  full  of  his 


4^  .tie-.'] 


m^n^ 


».l!RI.»l|5».WHiHF!wra»^ 


THE  AXMINSTER  PEERAGE 


»59 


",'e^ 


salutations  to  the  rising  sun  to  remember  the  setting 
one. 

Arnold  strolled  out  somewhat  saddened.  If  ever  in 
his  life  he  felt  inclined  to  be  cynical,  it  must  at  least 
be  admitted  he  had  much  just  then  to  make  him  so. 
It  was  all  a  sad  picture  of  human  fickleness.  And  then , 
the  bitter  thought  that  Kathleen  had  been  doing  just 
like  all  of  these  was  enough  to  sour  any  man.  Arnold 
turned  to  leave  the  House  by  the  strangers'  entrance. 
In  order  to  do  so,  he  had  to  pass  the  door  of  the  peers' 
robing-room.  As  he  went  by  it,  a  fat  little  old  gentle- 
man emerged  from  the  portal.  It  was  Lord  Helvellyn, 
who  had  passed  him  to  the  Strangers'  Gallery.  But 
now  the  little  man  looked  at  him  with  a  queer  gleam 
of  recollection.  Then  a  puzzled  expression  came  over 
hiF*  sallow  face. 

*  Look  here,'  he  said,  turning  suddenly  to  Arnold ; 
'  I  want  one  word  with  you.  What  was  that  you  told 
me  about  having  sailed  with  Lord  Axminster  in  the 
Saucy  Sally?* 

Arnold  scented  the  danger  at  once,  but  answered  in 
haste : 

*  It  was  true — quite  true.  I  went  out  on  her  last 
voyage.' 

'Nonsense,  man,'  the  little  fat  law  lord  replied, 
scanning  his  witness  hard,  as  is  the  wont  of  barristers, 
'  How  dare  you  have  the  impudence  to  tell  me  so  to 
my  face,  after  hearing  the  evidence  we  summarized  in 
our  report  ?  It's  pure  imposture.  Douglas  Overton 
or  Lord  Axminster  made  only  one  voyage  on  the  Saucu 
Sally :  and  in  the  course  of  that  voyage  she  was  lost 
with  all  hands.  It  was  that  that  we  went  upon  If 
anybody  had  survived,  we  must  have  heard  of  him,  of 
9ourse^  m^  have  ^ven  judgment  differently.    How  \1^ 


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you  get  out  of  that,  eh  ?    You're  an  linpostor,  sir — an 
impostor  1' 

*  But  I  left  the  ship,'  Arnold  began  hurriedly ;  he 
was  going  to  say  '  at  Cape  Town,'  when  it  was  borne 
in  upon  him  all  at  once  that  if  he  confessed  that  fact, 
he  would  be  practically  reopening  the  whole  field  of 
inquiry ;  and  with  a  crimson  face  he  held  bis  peace, 
most  unwillingly.  That  was  hard  indeed,  for  nothing 
roused  Arnold  Willoughby's  indignation  more  than  an 
imputation  of  untruthfulness.  * 

Lord  Helvellyn  smiled  grimly. 

'  Go  away,  sir,*  he  cried  with  a  gesture  of  honest 
contempt.  *  You  lied  to  me,  and  you  know  it.  You're 
an  impudent  scoundrel,  that's  what  you  are — a  most 
impudent  scoundrel ;  and  if  ever  I  see  you  loitering 
about  this  house  again,  I'll  give  orders  to  the  door- 
keeper to  take  you  by  the  scruBf  of  your  neck  and 
eject  you  forcibly.'  m 

Arnold's  blood  boiled  hot.  For  a  second  he  felt 
himself  once  more  an  aristocrat.  Was  he  to  be 
jostled  and  hustled  like  this,  with  insult  and  con- 
tumely, from  his  own  hereditary  chamber,  by  a  new- 
fangled law  lord?  Next  moment  his  wrath  cooled, 
and  he  saw  for  himself  the  utter  illogicality,  the  two- 
sided  absurdity,  of  his  own  position.  It  was  clearly 
untenable.  The  old  law  lord  was  right.  He  was  not 
the  Earl  of  Axminster.  These  precincts  of  Parliament 
were  no  place  for  him  in  future.  He  slnnk  down  the 
steps  life  a  whipped  cur.  'Twas  for  the  very  last  ti:Tie, 
As  he  went,  he  shook  off  the  dust  from  his  feet  meict- 
phorically.  Whatever  came  now,  he  must  ncv>T  more 
be  a  Redburn  or  an  Axminster.  He  was  quit  of  it 
once  for  all.  He  emerged  into  Parliament  Street, 
more  fixedly  than  ever,  a  plain  Arnold  Willoughby. 


wwfimmmw^^ 


/?v  A  CATHEDRAL  CITY 


i6l 


If  Kathleen  Ilesslegrave  wfshecl  to  make  herself  a 
Countess,  she  must  fix  her  hopes  somewhere  else,  he 
felt  sure,  than  on  Membury  Castle.  For  him,  the  sea, 
and  no  more  of  this  foolhig  !  Life  is  real,  life  is 
earnest,  and  Arnold  Willoughby  meant  to  jiake  it 
earnestly. 


CHAPTER  XV. 


IN  ▲  CATHEDRAL   CITY. 

Weeks  passed  before  Kathleen  Hesslegrave  recovered 
from  the  shock  of  that  terrible  disappointment.  It 
shattered  her  nerves  for  the  momrnt;  it  left  her 
heart-broken.  It  was  not  so  much  the  blow  to  her 
love,  though  that  was  bad  enough — Kathleen  was 
strong  of  soul,  and  could,  bear  up  against  a  mere  love- 
trouble  ;  it  was  the  sense  of  ])eing  so  completely  and 
unjustly  misunderstood  ;  it  was  the  feeling  that  the 
man  she  had  loved  best  in  the  world  had  gone  away 
from  her  entirely  misconceiving  and  misreading  her 
character.  At  the  risk  of  seeming  unwomanly,  Kath- 
'  leen  would  have  followed  him  to  the  world's  end,  if 
she  could,  not  so  much  for  love's  sake  as  to  clear  up 
that  unendurable  slight  to  her  integrity.  That  any 
man,  and  above  all  Arnold  Willougliby,  should  think 
her  capable  of  planning  a  vile  and  deliberate  plot  to 
make  herself  a  Countess,  while  pretending  to  be 
animated  by  the  most  disinterested  motives,  was  a 
misfortune  under  which  such  a  girl  as  Katlileen  could 
not  sit  down  quietly.    It  goaded  her  to  action. 

But  as  time  went  on,  it  became  every  day  clearer 
ftnd  clearer  to  her  that  Arnold  Willoughby'  liad  onQ^ 


|«"l",HW;lW'.!i^W!' 


162 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


T^l^^!^ 


more  disappeared  into  space,  just  as  Lord  Axminster 
had  disappeared  after  the  Blanche  Middleton  incident. 
It  was  utterly  impossible  for  her  even  to  begin  trying 
to  find  him.  Week  after  week  she  waited  in  misery 
and  despair,  growing  every  day  more  restless  under 
such  enforced  inactivity,  and  eating  her  heart  out  with 
the  sense  of  injustice.  Not  that  she  blamed  Arnold 
Willoughby ;  she  understood  him  too  well,  and  sym- 
pathized with  him  too  deeply,  not  to  forgive  him  all ; 
for  tout  savoir,  c*c8t  tout  pardonner.  He  could  hardly 
have  drawn  any  other  inference  from  Mrs.  Hessle- 
grave's  plain  words  than  the  inference  he  actually 
drew ;  and  Kathleen  admitted  to  herself  that  if  she 
had  really  been  what  Arnold  supposed  her,  she  would 
have  more  than  deserved  the  treatment  he  had 
accorded  her.  It  was  just  that,  indeed,  that  made 
the  sting  of  the  situation.  She  would  have  despised 
herself  for  being  what  she  knew  Arnold  Willoughby 
couldn't  pos&ibiy  help  thinking  her. 

Before  long,  however,  many  other  things  super- 
vened to  take  Kathleen's  mind  for  the  present  off 
Arnold  Willoughby.  Spring  had  set  in  over  sea  in 
England  *  with  its  usual  severity ' ;  and  Mrs.  Hessle- 
grave  felt  it  was  time  to  return  from  the  balmy  May 
of  Italy  to  the  chilly  and  gusty  month  which  usurps 
the  same  name  in  our  Northern  climates.  So  they 
struck  their  tents  northward.  As  soon  as  they 
returned,  there  were  the  exhibitions  to  see  about,  and 
the  sale  of  Kathleen's  pictures  and  sketches  to  arrange 
for,  and  the  annual  trouble  of  Mr.  Bf  ginald's  finances, 
with  their  normal  deficit.  Mr.  Reginald,  indeed,  had 
been  *  going  it  *  that  year  witL  more  than  his  accus- 
tomed vigour.  He  had  been  seeing  a  good  den  I 
thvough  the  winter  of  bis  friend  MisB  Floirie ;  m^ 


i 


^ 


^i-  ii       ^mn 


f!!>-,m\W}  imp., , 


II,  nnvii  .w4«|U|j|iji||pjB4|jju,p|,i,|5i 


iraP 


/N  /I  CATHEDRAL  CITY 


163 


IF- 
I   -! 

'I 


though  Miss  Florrie,  for  her  part,  had  not  the  slightest 
intention  of  *  chucking  up  her  chances '  by  marrying 
Mr.  Reginald,  she  *  rather  Hked  the  boy '  in  a  mild 
uncommercial  fashion,  and  permitted  him  to  present 
her  with  sundry  small  testimonials  of  his  ardent 
affection  in  the  shape  of  gloves  and  bouquets,  the  final 
honour  of  payment  for  which  fell,  necessarily  of 
course,  on  poor  Kathleen's  shoulders.  For  Miss 
Florrie  was  a  young  lady  not  wholly  devoid  of  senti- 
ment ;  she  felt  that  to  carry  on  a  mild  flirtation  witli 
Mr.  Reginald,  whom  she  never  meant  to  marry,  as  an 
affair  of  the  heart,  was  a  sort  of  sacrificial  homage  to 
the  higher  emotions — an  apologetic  recognition  of 
those  tender  feelings  which  she  considered  it  her  duty 
for  the  most  part  sternly  to  stifle.  The  consequence 
was  that  while  she  never  for  a  moment  allowed  Mr. 
Reginald  to  suppose  her  liking  for  him  was  anything 
more  than  purely  Platonic,  she  by  no  means  dis- 
couraged his  budding  affection's  floral  offerings,  or 
refused  to  receive  those  dainty-hued  six-and-a-halfs  in 
best  Parisian  kid  which  Reggie  laid  upon  the  shrine 
as  an  appropriate  holocaust. 

So,  when  poor  Kathleen  returned  to  London,  dis- 
tracted, and  burning  to  discover  Arnold  Willoughby's 
whereabouts,  the  very  first  thing  to  which  she  was 
compelled  to  turn  her-  attention  was  the  perennial 
and  ever-deepening  entanglement  of  Master  Reggie's 
budget.  As  usual  in  such  cases,  however,  Reggie  was 
wholly  unable  to  account  arithmetically  for  the  dis- 
appearance of  such  large  sums  of  n)oney ;  he  could 
but  vaguely  suimise  with  a  fatuous  smile  that  '  a  jolly 
good  lump  of  it '  had  gone  in  cab  fares. 
Kathleen  glanced  up  at  him  reproachfully : 
*But  I  never  take  a  cab  myself,  Reggie,'  she  ex- 


.fft: 


^^^^^^mwwmwmm^w^^^'?'^'^^''  ^ :  ^' 


M' 


% 


r.  .\. 


164 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


claimed  with  a  pigli,  *  except  in  the  evening,  or  to  pay 
a  call  at  some  house  entirely  off  the  'bus  routes.  For 
ordinary  day  journeys,  you  know  very  well,  I  always 
take  an  omnibus.' 

Reggie's  lip  curled  profound  contempt. 

'  My  dear  girl,'  he  replied  with  fraternal  superiority, 
*  I  hope  I  shall  never  sink  quite  as  low  as  an  omnibus.' 
(He  was  blandly  unaware  that  he  had  «unk  already  a 
great  many  stages  lower.)  *  No  self-respecting  person 
ever  looks  at  an  omnibus  nowadays.  It  may  have 
been  usual  in  your  time '-  Kathleen  was  five  or  six 
years  older  than  her  brother,  which  at  his  age  seems 
an  eternity — *  but  nowadays  I  assure  you  nobody  does 
it.  A  hansom's  the  only  thing,  though  I  confess  I 
don't  think  any  gentleman  ought  to  rest  content  till 
he  can  make  it  a  victoria.  My  ideal  is  in  time  to  set 
up  a  victoria;  but  how  can  a  fellow  do  that  on  my 
paltry  salary  ?' 

Poor  Kathleen  sighed.  How,  indeed !  That  was 
the  worst  of  Reggie ;  he  was  so  unpractical  and  incor- 
rigible. At  the  very  moment  when  she  was  trying  to 
impress  upon  him  the  enormity  of  owing  money  he 
couldn't  possibly  pay,  and  coming  down  upon  her 
scanty  earnings  to  make  good  the  deficiency,  he  would 
burst  in  upon  her  with  this  sort  of  talk  about  the  im- 
possibility of  stewing  in  the  pit  of  a  theatre,  and  the 
absolute  necessity  for  every  gentleman  to  have  a  stall 
of  his  own,  and  a  flower  in  his  button-hole,  even 
though  it  devolved  upon  other  people  to  pay  for  them. 
To  say  the  truth,  they  had  no  common  point  of  contact. 
Kathleen's  princi|)le  was  that  you  had  no  right  to  con- 
tract (kbts  if  you  had  no  means  of  paying  them  ; 
Reggie's  principle  was  that  you  must  live  at  all  hazards 
*  like  a  gentleman  '—even    though    you    allowed  a 


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IN  A  CATHEDRAL  CITY 


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woman  to  pay  with  her  own  work  for  the  cost  of  the 
proceedings. 

As  soon  as  Reggie's  affairs  had  been  set  compara- 
tively straight,  and  as  many  of  his  more  pressing 
debts  as  he  could  be  induced  for  the  moment  to 
acknowledge  had  been  duly  discharged  by  Kulhleen's 
aid,  the  poor  girl  set  to  work  in  real  earnest  to  dis- 
cover, if  i^osnible,  what  had  become  of  Arnold  Wil- 
loughby.  She  didn't  want  to  see  him — not  just  at 
present,  at  least,  till  this  misunderstanding  was  cleared 
up,  if  cleared  up  it  could  ever  be  by  her  bare  assertion. 
But  she  did  want  to  know  where  he  was,  to  write  and 
explain  to  him,  to  tell  him  how  deeply  and  how  com- 
pletely he  had  misjudged  her.  It  was  all  in  vain, 
however.  She  had  to  eat  her  heart  out  with  unful- 
filled desire.  Go  where  she  would,  she  could  hear 
nothing  at  all  of  him.  She  dived  into  the  recesses  o! 
East-End  coffee-houses,  sadly  against  her  will — ^places 
where  it  seemed  incredible  to  her  that  Arnold  Wil- 
loughby  should  be  found,  and  where,  nevertheless, 
many  sailors  seemed  to  know  him.  *  Willoughby  ? 
Ay,  Willoughby.  That's  the  chap  that  used  to  make 
me  hand  him  over  my  screw,  as  soon  as  it  was  paid, 
and  send  three  parts  of  it  home  to  my  missis,  and 
keep  the  rest  for  me,  for  baccy  and  such-like.  Ay,  he 
was  a  good  sort,  he  was ;  but  it's  long  sin'  I  saw  him. 
Drownded,  mayhap,  or  left  the  sea  or  summat.'  That 
was  all  she  could  hear  of  Arnold  in  the  seafaring 
quarter.  It  seemed  quite  natural  to  those  hardy  salts 
that  a  person  of  their  acquaintance  should  disappear 
suddenly  for  a  year  or  two  from  their  ken,  or  even 
should  drop  out  of  existense  altogether,  without  any- 
one's missing  him.  'It's  like  huntin*  for  a  needle  in 
A  bottle  of  hay,  misst,'  one  old  sailor  observed  with  a 


•41 


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--1.  . 


friendly  smile,  '  to  look  for  a  seaman  in  the  Port  o* 
London.  Mayhap,  whon  the  sealers  come  back  to 
Dundee,  you  might  get  some  news  o'  him ;  for  Wil- 
ioughby  he  were  always  one  as  had  an  eye  on  the 
sealin'.'  With  that  slender  hope  Kathleen  buoyed 
herself  up  for  the  present ;  but  her  poor  heart  sank  as 
she  thought  that  during  all  these  weeks  Arnold  must 
be  going  on  thinking  worse  and  ever  worse  of  her, 
letting  the  wound  rankle  deep  in  that  sensitive  breast 
of  his. 

One  element  of  brightness  alone  there  was  in  her 
life  for  the  moment ;  her  art  at  least  was  being  better 
and  better  appreciated.  She  sold  her  Academy 
picture  for  more  than  double  what  she  had  ever 
before  received ;  and  no  wonder,  for  she  painted  it  in 
the  thrillhig  ecstasy  of  first  maiden  passion.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  this  rise  in  her  prices,  indeed,  she 
didn't  know  how  she  could  have  met  Mr.  Reginald's 
demands ;  and  Mr.  Reginald  himself,  quick  to  observe 
where  a  fresh  chance  opened,  immediately  discounted 
Kathleen's  betterment  in  market  value  by  incurring 
several  new  debts  with  tailor  and  tobacconist  on  the 
strength  of  his  sister's  increased  ability  to  pay  them 
in  future. 

As  soon  as  the  London  season  was  over,  however, 
the  Hesslegraves  received  an  invitation  to  go  down  to 
Norchester  on  a  visit  to  the  Valentines.  Mrs.  Hessle- 
grave  was  highly  pleased  with  this  invitation.  *  Such 
a  good  place  to  be  seen,  you  know,  dear,  the  Valen- 
tines ;  and  a  Cathedral  town,  too !  The  Bishop  and 
Canons  are  so  likely  to  buy ;  and  even  if  they  don't, 
one  feels  one's  associating  with  ladies  and  gentlemen.' 
Poor  Kathleen  shrank  from  it,  indeed ;  for  was  it  not 
Canon  Valentine  who  indirectly  and  unintentionally 


I 

I 


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A 


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i 


^^pi^ff; 


IN  A  CATHEDRAL  CITY 


167 


# 


liad  brought  about  all  her  troubles  by  incautiously 
letting  out  the  secret  of  Arnold  Willuughby's  person- 
ality ?  But  she  went,  for  all  that ;  for  it  wan  !ier  way 
to  sacrifice  herself.  Many  good  women  have  learnt 
that  lesson  only  too  well,  I  fear,  and  would  be  all  the 
better  for  an  inkling  of  the  opposite  one,  that  self- 
development  IS  a  duty  almost  as  real  and  as  imperative 
as  self-sacrifice. 

So  down  to  Norchester  she  went.  She  had  no 
need  now  to  caution  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  against  open- 
ing her  mouth  again  about  the  Axminster  episode; 
for  the  good  lady,  having  once  hopelessly  compromised 
herself  on  that  mysterious  subject,  was  so  terrified  at 
the  result  that  she  dared  not  even  broach  it  afresh  to 
Kathleen.  Since  the  day  of  Ai-nold  Willoughby's  dip- 
appearance,  indeed,  mother  and  daughter  had  held 
their  peace  to  one  another  on  the  matter ;  and  that 
very  silence  overawed  Mrs.  Hesslegrave,  who  knew 
from  it  how  deeply  Kathleen's  heart  had  been 
wounded.  As  for  the  Canon,  now  Algy  had  obtained 
the  peerage,  it  was  more  than  ever  his  cue  to  avoid 
any  allusion  to  the  sailor  he  had  so  rashly  recognised 
at  Venice.  He  was  convinced  in  his  own  mind  by 
this  time  that  Bertie  Bedburn  must  have  committed 
some  crime,  the  consequences  of  which  he  was 
endeavouring  to  shirk  by  shuffling  off  his  personality ; 
and  if  that  attempt  redounded  to  Algy's  advantage,  it 
was  certainly  very  far  from  the  Canon's  wish  to 
interfere  in  any  way  with  the  fugitive's  anonymity. 
So  he,  too,  held  his  peace  without  a  hint  or  a  word. 
He  was  willing  to  let  the  hasty  exclamation  wrung 
from  him  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  at  Venice  be  for- 
gotten, if  possible,  by  all  who  heard  it. 

On  their  first  day  at  Norchester,  Kathleen  went 


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down  with  tlieir  host  to  the  Cathedral.  There's  some- 
Ihiiij:^  very  charming  and  sweet  and  grave  about  our 
]Cnghsh  cathedrals,  even  after  the  gorgeous  churches 
of  Italy ;  and  Kathleen  admired  immensely  the  beauti- 
ful green  close,  the  old-world  calm,  the  meditative 
view  from  the  Canon's  windows  upon  the  palace 
gardens.  It  was  all  so  still,  so  demure,  so  peaceful, 
so  English.  Ad  they  walked  round  the  building 
towards  the  great  east  window,  the  Canon  was 
apologetic  about  his  hasty  flight  from  Venice. 

*  I  went  away  suddenly,  I  know,'  he  said ;  *  bat,  then, 
you  must  admit,  Miss  Hesslegrave,  it's  a  most  in- 
sanitary town.  Such  smells!  Such  filtfi!  It  just 
reeks  with  typhoid.' 

*  Well,  I  allow  the  perfumes,*  Kathleen  answered, 
bridling  up  in  defence  of  her  beloved  Venice ;  *  but  as 
to  the  typhoid,  I  have  my  doubts.  The  sea  seems  to 
purify  it.  Do  you  know,  Canon  Valentine,  I've  spent 
five  winters  on  end  in  Venice,  and  I've  never  had  a 
personal  friend  ill  with  fever ;  whilfe  in  England  I've 
had  dozens.  It  isn't  always  the  places  that  look  the 
dirtiest  which  turn  out  in  the  long-run  to  be  really 
most  insanitary.  And  if  it  comes  to  that,  what  could 
possibly  be  worse  than  those  slums  we  passed  on  our 
way  out  of  the  close,  near  the  pointed  archway,  where 
you  cross  the  river  ?' 

The  Canon  bristled  up  in  turn.  This  was  really 
most  annoying.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  those  particular 
siams  were  the  property  of  the  Dean  and  Chapter  of 
Norchester,  and  complaints  had  been  going  about  in 
the  local  paper  that  they  were  no  wholesomer  than, 
they  ought  to  be ;  which  made  it,  of  course,  all  the 
more  intolerable  that  they  should  attract  the  attention 
of  a  complete  stranger. 


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IN  A  CATHEDRAL  CITY 


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*  Not  at  all,'  he  answered  testily.  *  Those  are  very 
good  cottages — very  good  cottages  indeed.  I  can  see 
nothing  wrong  with  them.  You  can't  expect  to  house 
■working-people  in  the  Bishop's  Palace,  and  to  give 
them  port-wine  and  venison  every  day  ad  libitum. 
But  as  working-men's  houses,  they're  very  good 
houses ;  and  I  wouldn't  mind  living  in  one  of  them 
myself — if  I  were  a  working-man,'  the  Canon  added 
in  an  after-thought,  *  and  had  been  brought  up  to  the 
ways  of  them.' 

Kathleen  said  no  more,  for  she  saw  the  Canon  was 
annoyed  ;  and  she  knew  when  to  be  silent.  But  that 
morning  at  lunch  the  Canon  enlarged  greatly  upon 
the  health  and  cleanliness  of  Norchester  in  general, 
and  the  Cathedral  close  and  property  in  particular. 
It  was  wholesomeness  itself ;  the  last  word  of  sanita- 
tion. Nobody  ever  got  ill  there ;  nobody  ever  died ; 
and  he  had  never  even  heard  of  a  case  of  typhoid. 

*  Except  old  Grimes,  dear,'  Mrs.  Valentine  interposed 
incautiously. 

The  Canon  crushed  her  with  a  glance. 

*  Old  Grimes,'  he  said  angrily,  *  brought  the  seeds 
of  it  with  him  from  a  visit  to  Bath — which  I  don't 
consider  at  all  so  well  sanitated  as  Norchester ;  and  I 
told  the  Dean  so  at  our  diocesan  synod.  But  not 
another  case — not  a  case  can  I  remember. — No, 
Amelia,  it's  no  use ;  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say. 
Mrs.  Wheeler's  fever  came  straight  from  London, 
which,  we  all  of  us  know,  is  a  perfect  pest-hole  ;  and 
as  to  poor  jold  Canon  Brooks,  he  contracted  it  in  Italy. 
The  precentor !  No,  no !  Goodness  gracious !  has  it 
come  to  this,  then  ? — that  not  only  do  vile  agitators 
print  these  things  openly  in  penny  papers  for  our 
servants  to  read,  but  even  our  own  wives  must  go 


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throwing  dirt  in  the  faces  of  the  Cathedral  Chapter ! 
I  tell  you,  Amelia,  the  town's  as  clean  as  a  new  pin ; 
and  the  property  of  the  close  is  a  model  of  sanita- 
tion.' 

That  evening,  however,  by  some  strange  mischance, 
the  Canon  himself  complained  of  headache.  Next 
morning  he  was  worse,  and  they  sent  for  the  doctor. 
The  doctor  looked  grave. 

*  I've  been  expecting  this  sooner  or  later,'  he  said, 

*  if  something  wasn't  done  about  those  slums  by  the 
river.  I'm  afraid,  Mrs.  Valentine,  it  would  be  only 
false  kindness  to  conceal  the  truth  from  you.  The 
Canon  shows  undoubted  symptoms  of  typhoid.' 

It  was  quite  true.  He  had  caught  it  three  weeks 
earlier  on  a  visit  of  inspection  to  Close  Wynd,  the 
slum  by  the  river,  where  he  had  duly  pronounced  the 
cottages  on  the  Cathedral  property  *  perfectly  fit  for 
human  habitation.'  And  now,  out  of  his  own  mouth, 
had  nature  convicted  him.  For,  in  his  eagerness  to 
prove  that  all  was  for  the  best,  in  the  best  of  all 
possible  Cathedral  towns,  for  the  tenants  of  the 
Chapter,  he  had  asked  for  and  tossed  off  a  glass  of 
the  tainted  water  to  which  the  boiwugh  sanitary 
inspector  was  calling  his  attention. 

*  Perfectly  pure  and  good,'  he  said,  in  his  testy  way. 

*  Never  tasted  better  water  in  my  life,  I  assure  you. 
What  the  people  want  to  complain  about  nowadays 
fairly  passes  my  comprehension/ 

And  he  went  his  way  rejoicing.  But  for  twenty-one 
days  those  insidious  little  microbes  that  he  swallowed 
so  carelessly  lay  maturing  their  colony  in  the  Canon's 
doomed  body.  At  the  end  of  that  time  they  swarmed 
and  developed  themselves ;  f.nd  even  the  Canon  him- 
self knew  in  his  own  heart,  unspoken,  that  it  was  the 


I  , 


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ni^tpHi^aiwiPmppiiiit^'^ 


IN  A  CATHEDRAL  CITY 


171 


Close  Wynd  water  that  had  given  him  typhoid  fever. 
When  he  made  his  will,  he  did  not  forget  it ;  and  the 
lawyer  who  opened  it  eight  days  later  found  that  in 
that  hasty  sheet,  dictated  from  his  death-bed,  the 
Canon  had  remembered  to  leave  two  hundred  pounds 
for  the  improvement  of  the  sanitary  condition  of  the 
'perfect'  cottages  which  had  proved  his  destruc- 
tion. 

One  day  later  Mrs.  Valentine  succumbed.  She,  too, 
had  drunk  the  poisonous  water,  *  for  example's  sake, 
Amelia,'  her  husband  had  said  to  her ;  and  she,  too, 
died  after  a  short  attack.  It  was  a  most  virulent  type 
of  the  disease,  the  doctor  said — the  type  that  comes  of 
long  sanitary  neglect  and  wholesale  pollution.  But 
that  was  not  all.  These  things  seldom  stop  short  with 
the  original  culprits.  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  was  seized, 
too,  after  nursing  her  two  old  friends  through  their 
fatal  illness ;  and,  being  weak  and  ill  beforehand  with 
regret  and  remorse  for  the  part  she  had  played  in 
driving  away  the  Earl  whom  Kathleen  wanted  to 
marry  (for  that  was  the  way  in  which  Mrs.  Hessle- 
grave thought  of  it  to  the  very  end),  she  sank  rapidly 
under  the  strain,  and  died  within  a  fortnight  of  the 
two  Valentines.  So  Kathleen  found  herself  practically 
alone  in  the  world,  and  with  Keginald  on  her  hands, 
except  so  far  as  his  'paltry  salary'  would  enable 
a  gentleman  of  so  much  social  pretension  to  keep 
himself  in  the  barest  necessaries  at  the  florist's  and 
the  glover's.         .    v        '^.  v. 

In  the  midst  of  her  real  grief  for  a  mother  she  had 

oved  and  watched  over  tenderly,  it  did  not  strike 

Kathleen  at  the  time  that   by  these  three  deaths, 

following  one  another  in  such  rapid  succession,  the 

9nly  three  gtber  depositaries  qi  Arnold  Willoughby'^ 


Pliiiiilip 


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■■?f:"^iHy '■ 


173 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


secret  had  been  removed  at  one  blow,  and  that  she 
herself  remained  now  the  sole  person  on  earth  who 
could  solve  the  Axminster  mystery.  But  it  occurred 
to  her  later  on,  when  the  right  time  came,  and  when 
phe  saw  what  must  be  done  about  Arnold  Willoughby's 
luture. 


CHAPTER  XVL 


WITHOUT  SECURITY. 

^  s  soon  as  the  funeral  was  over,  Kathleen  returned 
to  town  to  prove  her  mother's  will.  Mrs.  Hesslegrave 
had  little  to  leave,  and  her  pension  died  with  her. 
Her  owri  small  property,  a  trifle  scarcely  worth  con- 
sidering, she  divided  in  equal  shares  between  Kath- 
leen and  Beginald.  But  Mr.  Beginald  was  not  a  little 
surprised  at  this  equitable  arrangement. 

'Of  course,  I  don't  grumble,'  he  said  magnanimously 
to  his  sister,  as  she  turned  her  pale  face  up  to  him 
from  her  newly-made  mourning ;  *  but  it's  beastly  un- 
fair ,  that's  what  I  call  it :  and  I  confess  it  isn't  quite 
what  I'd  have  expected  from  the  mater.' 

Kathleen  stared  at  him  with  tears  in  he^*  eyes.  It 
shocked  her  inexpressibly  to  hear  him  speak  of  their 
mother  at  such  a  moment  with  so  little  feeling. 

*  Unfair !'  she  exclaimed,  taken  aback ;  '  why,  how 
do  you  make  that  out,  Reggie  ?  We're  both  to  share 
alike.  I  don't  quite  see  myself  how  anything  could 
well  be  made  very  much  fairer !'  ;       .v 

But  Reggie  plumed  himself  on  the  sense  of  what 
Aristotle  describes  as  *  distributive  justice.'    "  yr  Js;  • 

*  I  don't  ftt  ftU  agree  with  you,'  he  ftnsww^cl  with 


'■^|iiyi«ppipp^iwi|!«  »iL  1. 1^"!^!' 


WITHOUT  SECURITY 


m 


M 


i:::i  M 


.4fesfi1 


■m 


vigour,  digging  his  hands  into  his  trousers-pocl^ets 
doggedly.  *  I'm  a  man ;  you're  a  woman.  That 
makes  all  the  difference.  A  man's  needs  in  life  are  far 
greater  than  a  woman's.  He  has  society  to  think  of. 
A  woman  can  live  upon  anything,  her  wants  are 
80  few:  a  man  requires  much  more— cigars,  cabs, 
theatres,  an  occasional  outing ;  a  Sunday  up  the  river ; 
a  box  at  the  opera.' 

In  which  chivalrous  theory  of  the  relations  of  the 
sexes,  Mr.  Reginald  Hesslegrave  is  kept  in  counten- 
ance by  not  a  few  of  his  kind  in  London  and  else- 
where. 

*  I  don't  see  why  a  man  should  have  all  those  things 
any  more  than  a  woman — if  he  can't  afford  them,' 
Kathleen  answered  with  more  spirit  than  she  was 
aware  she  possessed.  '  Because  so  many  women  are 
content  to  scrape  and  slave  for  the  sake  of  the  men  of 
their  families,  I  don't  see  that  that  entitles  the  men 
to  suppose  every  woman  is  bound  to  do  it  for  them. 
Why  should  you  be  any  better  entitled  to  a  box  at  the 
opera,  if  it  comes  to  that,  than  I  am  ?' 

*0h,  well,  if  you've  no  sense  of  family  dignity,' 
Reggie  interjected  obliquely,  taking  the  enemy  by  a 
flank  movement  at  the  weakest  point,  *  and  would  like 
to  see  your  brother  sit  stawing  in  the  pit  among  a 
promiscuous  pack  of  howlmg  cads,  or  wearing  a  coat 
that  would  disgrace  an  office-boy,  why,  of  course 
there's  no  answering  you.  It's  wasting  words  to 
argue.  I  was  taking  it  for  granted  you  had  still  some 
sense  left  of  sisterly  affection,  and  some  decent  pride 
in  your  relations'  position.  But  I  suppose  you'd  like 
to  see  me  sweeping  a  crossing.  Besides,'  he  went  on 
after  a  brief  pause,  *  youVe  your  painting  to  fall  back 
upon.    You  cftu  earn  money  at  that,    It's  a  jolly 


>«  s 


m 


,H/>ifti:-'Mt..W«%i'v>«wJit 


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titi^a'im^-fi^Mll^ 


!^TOf?P*JsnW^ 


174 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


Rood  profession.  The  mater  ought  to  have  considered 
the  differences  in  our  positions,  and  have  "  governed 
herself  accordingly,"  as  we  say.  in  the  City.' 

'But  you  have  your  salary!'  Kathleen  exclaimed, 
distressed  to  hear  him  question  so  lightly  their 
mother's  sense  of  justice ;  for,  like  most  good  women, 
she  was  more  loyal  to  her  mother  than  her  mother  (to 
say  the  truth)  had  ever  deserved  of  her.  *  That's 
something  fixed  and  certain;  you  can  always  count 
upon  it ;  while  my  work's  precarious  :  I  may  happen 
to  sell,  or  I  may  happen  to  make  a  failure.  And 
then,  too,  you're  a  man,  and  what's  the  use  of  being  a 
man,  I  should  like  to  know — a  superior  being — a  lord 
of  creation — if  you  can't  be  trusted  to  earn  your  own 
livelihood  better  than  a  woman  could  ?  If  there's  to 
be  a  difference  at  all,  surely  it's  the  women,  the 
weaker  of  the  two,  and  the  less  able  on  the  average  to 
take  care  of  themselves,  who  ought  to  receive  the 
most !  A  man  can  work  for  his  living;  a  woman  can't 
so  \V(b11  ;  more  doors  are  closed  to  her ;  and  I  think  all 
that  ought  to  be  taken  into  consideration  in  arranging 
inheritances  as  between  sons  and  daughters.* 

'My  salary!'  Mr.  Reginald  repeated,  with  supreme 
scorn  in  his  voice.  *  My  paltry  salary !  That  beg- 
garly sum !  How  can  you  expect  a  man  brought  up 
with  the  tastes  and  feelings  of  a  gentleman  to  live 
upon  a  miserable  pittance  like  that  ?  You  don't 
understand  these  things,  that's  where  it  i.^ :  you're 
not  in  society.  You  go  and  paint  half  your  time  at 
some  place  or  other  in  Italy ' — Mr.  Reginald  had  a 
profound  and  impartial  contempt  for  all  foreign 
countries — *  and  you  don't  understand  the  needs  and 
requirements  of  a  man  about  town.  They  don't  come 
liome  to  ^ou,    Whjr,  neckties  alone— tbere'e  m  ite^ 


■'I 


WITHOUT  SECURITY 


I7S 


tor  you !  I'm  distracted  with  the  difficulty  of  pro- 
viding good  neckties.  And  flowers,  again  !  How  can 
one  do  without  flowers?  I  don't  suppose  I  should 
ever  have  a  chance  of  rising  to  he  an  Authorized,  if 
Jones  were  to  see  me  without  a  gardenia  in  my 
buttonhole!* 

*  Rising  to  be  a  what  ?'  Kathleen  inquired,  looking 
puzzled. 

*  An  Authorized,'  Reggie  replied  with  a  superior 
smile.  *  Oh  no ;  I  didn't  expect  you  to  understand 
what  I  meant.  It's  a  beastly  vulgar  slang,  the  slang 
of  the  Stock  Exchange :  but  what  can  you  expect  ? 
If  a  man's  put  by  his  people  into  a  hole  of  a  stock- 
broker's office,  instead  of  into  a  cavalry  regiment, 
where  his  appearance  and  manners  entitle  him  to  be 
— why,  of  course,  he  must  pick  up  the  vile  lingo  of  the 
disgusting  hole  he's  been  stuck  in.  An  Authorized  is 
a  clerk,  a  superior  clerk,  a  sort  of  Trusted  Servant, 
who  pays  a  special  subscription  to  the  House,  and  is 
entitled  to  act  on  his  employer's  account  exactly  like  a 
broker.  He  gets  a  jolly  good  screw,  an  Authorized 
does  in  a  good  firm.  I  hope  in  time,  by  my  merits, 
to  rise  to  be  an  Authorized.  I'll  make  things  hop 
then,  I  can  tell  you,  Kitty :  Threadneedle  Street  won't 
know  me!' 

*  And  who's  Jones  ?'  Kathleen  inquired  once  more, 
never  having  heard  till  that  moment  of  this  mysterious 
personage. 

*  Why,  our  senior  partner,  of  course,'  Reggie 
answered  with  gusto. 

*  But  I  thought  he  was  a  Greek,  with  a  very  long 
name,*  Kathleen  answered,  much  puzzled. 

*  So  he  is,*  Reggie  replied.  '  His  full  name's 
loannipulides.     Now,    no    Christian    body   can   be 


Jm 


W-'- 


■^mmf^^frmir^^WFW^fimif'i'fSf^^ 


176 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


,  ■  ■<'■ 


expected  to  say  "  Mr.  loannipulides  "  fifty  times  over 
in  the  course  of  a  working  day — which  is  only  eight 
hours — so  we  call  him  Jones  for  short.  It's  every  bit 
as  effective,  and  a  deal  less  expensive  on  the  vocal 
organs.' 

*  I  see,'  Kathleen  replied,  and  was  silent  for  a 
moment. 

*  However,*  Mr.  Reggie  continued,  returning  to  the 
charge,  unshattereil,  *  it  doesn't  matter  how  the  poor 
mater  left  the  money,  don't  you  know,  one  way  or  the 
other :  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  The  long  and 
the  short  of  it  is,  whether  you  like  it  or  whether  you 
lump  it,  you'll  have  to  fork  over  your  share  to  me  as 
soon  as  we've  got  clear  through  with  this  beastly 
probate  business ;  for  I  want  the  tin,  and,  to  put  it 
fair  and  square,  I  can't  do  without  it.' 

-    Kathleen  stood  aghast  at  the  proposal. 

'What?  all  dear  mother  left  me!'  she  cried, 
thunderstruck.    *  You  expect  me  to  give  it  up  to  you  ?' 

Mr.  Reginald  assumed  a  severely  logical  expression 
of  face. 

*  I  don't  expect  anything,'  he  replied  with  conscious 
moderation.  'In  this  world,  I  know,  one's  exposed 
to  perpetual  disappointment.  People  are  so  selfish, 
that's  the  fact :  they  never  think  at  all  of  other 
people's  situations.  They  won't  put  themselves  in 
their  shoes.  All  I  say  is  this  :  I  ex'pect  nothing ;  but 
if  you  want  to  see  your  brother  hauled  up  in  the 
Bankruptcy  Court— liabilities,  seven  hundred  and  fifty 
odd :  assets,  four-and-tuppence — "  the  bankrupt  was 
severely  reprimanded  by  the  learned  Commissioner, 
and  did  not  receive  his  discharge  " — why,  of  course, 
you're  quite  at  liberty  to  look  on  and  enjoy  that 
charming  spectacle.    It  don't  matter  to  me.    I'd  soon 


^^^i'   M'mm 


■::^m 


Pippppippm^iniiippinip«ppniii3^^ 


mm 


■4 


'^ 


i 


WITHOUT  SECURITY 


177 


get  used  to  it.  Though  I  ivould  have  thought  mere 
family  aflfection,  to  say  nothing  of  family  pride — for  I 
perceive  you  haven't  got  any * 

'But,  Reggie,'  Kathleen  cried,  horror-struck,  'you 
don't  mean  to  tell  me  that,  with  your  income,  you're 
more  than  seven  hundred  pounds  in  debt  ?  It  isn't 
really  true,  is  it  ?' 

Eeggie  gazed  at  her  contemptuously. 

'  "What  a  storm  in  a  teapot !'  he  answered  with 
gentlemanly  scorn.  'Maybe  six  hundred  and  fifty. 
Maybe  eight  hundred.  A  gentleman  doesn't  generally 
trouble  himself  about  the  details  of  these  matters. 
He  buys  what  he  can't  possibly  do  without ;  and  he 
pays  for  it  by  instalments  from  time  to  time  as 
occasion  offers.  His  tailor  says  to  him :  "  Woiild  it  be 
perfectly  convenient  to  you,  sir,  to  let  me  have  a  few 
pounds  on  account  within  the  next  six  weeks  or  so  ? — 
for,  if  so,  I  should  be  glad  of  it.  I'm  sorry  to  trouble 
you,  sir ;  but,  you  see,  your  little  bill  has  been  running 
on  80  long !" — and  he  rubs  his  hands  apologetically. 
And  then  you  say  to  him  in  a  careless  way :  "  Well, 
no,  Saunders,  it  woiddn't.  I  don't  happen  to  have  any 
spare  cash  in  hand  to  waste  on  paying  bills  just  at 
the  present  moment — Ascot  coming  on,  don't  you 
know,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing ;  but  I'll  tell  you  what 
I'll  do  for  you ;  you  can  make  me  a  couple  more  suits, 
tweed  dittoes,  and  knickerbockers."  That's  the  way 
to  manage  tradesmen  ;  they  don't  mind  about  money, 
as  long  as  they  get  your  custom :  though,  as  a  con- 
sequence, of  course,  one  doesn't  always  remember 
exactly  what  one  owes  within  a  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds  or  so.' 

*  Reggie,'  Kathleen  said  firmly,  *  I  call  it  wicked  ol 
you — wicked  r    ^ -.■.,-.;.;,).■,/,,,  V^.  .}f .':''':-     v  .,.'..y'':-^--^:-;..r 


ii. 


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vmmmmimfSfmmiimifB. 


178 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


*So  one's  people  generally  remark,'  Reggie  an- 
swered with  perfect  unconcern.  *  I  was  talking  over 
this  subject  with  Charlie  Owen  yesterday,  and  he  told 
me  his  governor  made  precisely  the  same  remark  to 
him  last  time  he  struck  for  an  increased  allowance. 
It's  astonishing  how  little  originality  there  is  in  human 
beings!' 

It  was  useless  being  angry  with  him  ;  so  Kathleen 
began  a^^  ain. 

'  Now,  .ieggie,'  she  said  in  a  serious  voice,  'I'm  not 
going  to  make  you  a  present  this  time  of  anything. 
You  must  find  out  what  you  owe,  and  show  me  the 
bills ;  and  then  perhaps  I  may  be  disposed  to  lend  you 
what  you  need — on  nota  of  hand,  you  understand — 
till  you're  rich  enough  to  pay  me.' 

*  Oh  dear  yes,  I  understand,'  Reggie  answered  with 
alacrity.  *  I  understand  down  to  the  ground.  Notes 
of  hand  are  my  spdcialiU.  Almost  all  this  that  I  want 
to  clear  off  just  now  is  on  note  of  hand,  Kitty.  Fact 
is,  I'm  in  a  hole;  and  it's  no  good  denying  it.  Of 
course,  if  you  choose  to  leave  your  brother  in  a  hole, 
like  Jacob's  sons,  for  the  Midianites  or  somebody  to 
pull  him  out  and  sell  him  up,  you're  perfectly  at 
liberty,  I  admit,  to  do  it.  But  a  hole  I'm  in ;  and  it's 
notes  of  hand  have  put  me  there.  You  see,  I  ex- 
pected to  come  into  whatever  private  property  the 
poor  mater  had  ;  and  I  expected  it  to  turn  out  a  good 
deal  more  than  it  actually  has  done.  I'm  a  victim  of 
misapprehension.  I  flew  a  kite  or  two,  making  'em 
payable  within  six  months — of— well,  you  know,  what 
they  call  a  post-obit.  And  now  I  find  I  can't  meet  'em, 
which  is  awkward — very;  and  unless  the  members 
of  my  family  come  forward  and  help  me,  I  suppose 
I  must  go  into  the  court — and  lose  my  situation.* 


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l^hat  was  a  good  trump-card,  and  Mr.  lloginald 
knew  it. 

'  But  you  solemnly  declared  to  me,  only  six  months 
since,  you  hadn't  a  debt  in  the  world  except  the  ones 
I  paid  for  you !'  Kathleen  exclaimed  reproachfully. 
*  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  then  the  exact  amount  of 
your  indebtedness  ?' 

'  No  fellow  ever  does  tell  his  people  the  exact  amount 
of  his  indebtedness,*  Reggie  answered  with  airy 
candour.  *  It's  a  trait  of  human  nature.'  Y/hich  was 
no  doubt  quite  true,  but  not  particularly  consolatory  to 
Kathleen  in  the  present  emergency. 

'  It's  very,  very  wrong  of  you,  Reggie,*  she  said 
again,  trying  to  be  properly  stern  with  him. 

*  Oh,  that's  all  rot !'  Reggie  answered  with  his  usual 
frankness.  'It's  no  good  pitching  into  any  chap 
because  he  behaves  exactly  the  same  as  every  other 
chap  does.  I  told  you  there's  precious  little  origin- 
ality in  human  nature.  I've  gone  on  as  all  other 
young  men  go  on  in  a  decent  position ;  and  you've 
gone  on  in  the  ordinary  way  common  to  their  people ; 
so  now  suppose  we  drop  it  all,  and  get  forward  with 
the  business.* 

And  get  forward  with  the  business  the}^  did  accord- 
ingly. After  a  great  many  subterfuges  and  petty 
attempts  at  deception,  Reggie  was  at  last  induced  to 
furnish  Kathleen,  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  with  a 
tolerably  complete  list  of  his  various  creditors  and  the 
amounts  he  owed  them.  Every  item,  he  explained  in 
detail,  was  *  simply  unavoidable.'  These  gloves,  for 
example,  were  necessaries — most  undoubted  neces- 
saries ;  any  judge  would  pass  them,  for  a  fellow  in  his 
position.  Those  flowers  were  naturally  part  of  his 
costume ;  hang  it  all !  a  man  must  dress.    If  people 


^PPPPPiUPP 


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I  So 


AT  MARKET  VAtVJ^ 


appeared  in  public  insufficiently  clad,  why,  as  a  matter 
of  common  morals,  the  police  interfered  with  them. 
As  for  that  fan,  put  down  at  fifty  shillings,  Florrie 
Clarke  had  bought  that  one  evening  when  she  was  out 
with  him ;  and  he  said  to  the  shopman,  *  Put  it  down 
to  me!' — as  also  with  the  bouquets,  the  brooch,  and 
the  earrings. 

*  But  what  could  I  do  ?'  he  pleaded  plaintively. 
*  She  said  she  wanted  them.  I  was  a  man,  don't  you 
see.  I  couldn't  stard  by  and  let  a  woman  pay  for 
them.' 

*  It  strikes  me  you're  going  to  let  a  woman  pay  for 
them  now,'  Kathleen  put  in  with  Just  severity. 

Eeggie  smiled  his  graceful  smile,  and,  as  he  did  so, 
Kathleen  couldn't  help  admitting  that,  after  all,  he 
was  a  very  good-looking  boy,  Eeggie.       •  . 

*  Ah,  but  that's  quite  a  different  matter,'  he  answered, 
laying  one  brotherly  hand  on  her  shoulder,  with  a 
caressing  glance.     *  You  see,  you're  my  sister !' 

And  what  a  creature  a  woman  is  !  How  inconsis- 
tent !  How  placable  !  That  one  fraternal  act  made 
Kathleen  overlook  all  Eeggie' s  misdeeds  at  once  and 
for  ever.  I  regret  to  have  to  chronicle  it:  but  she 
stooped  down  and  kissed  him.  The  kiss  settled  the 
question. 

Eeggie  swept  the  field  in  triumph.  Before  he  left 
Kathleen's  rooms  that  afternoon  he  had  extracted  a 
promise  that  on  his  pr'^ducing  his  bills,  and  stating 
the  precise  amounts  of  his  funded  debts  in  the  way  of 
notes  of  hand  with  his  various  creditors,  he  should 
receive  a  sufficient  sum  in  ready  cash  to  settle  in  full 
and  begin  life  over  again.  He  meant  to  turn  over  a 
new  leaf,  he  said,  cheering  up  at  the  prospect.  And 
60  he  did — in  the  ledger.    A  clean  sweep  of  all  his 


Ik 


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WITHOUT  SECURITY 


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bills  would  allow  him  to  start  afresh  with  increased 
credit — since  his  creditors  would  now  conclude  he  had 
come  into  money.  Indeed,  he  instantly  formed,  in 
his  own  imaginative  mind,  a  splendid  scheme  for 
inviting  Florrie  and  her  mamma  down  to  Eichmond 
on  a  drag,  with  Charlie  Owen  to  assist,  and  a  few 
other  good  fellows  to  help  drink  the  dry  Monopole. 
What's  the  good  of  getting  your  people  to  pay  off 
all  you  owe,  if  nobody  but  the  beastly  tradesmen 
is  to  derive  any  benefit  from  their  generous  be- 
haviour ? 

So  convinced  was  Mr.  Eeginald  of  this  truth,  in- 
deed, and  so  firmly  determined  not  to  let  Kathleen's 
kindness  be  wasted  for  nothing,  that  on  his  way  dov/n 
town  again  from  his  sister's  rooms  he  turned  casually 
into  his  tobacconist's  in  passing. 

*  I  say,  Morton,'  he  observed  in  an  easy  tone,  *  will 
you  just  let  me  have  your  little  bill  to-night  ?  I'm 
thinking  of  paying  it.' 

*  Oh,  certainly,  sir,'  the  subservient  tobacconist 
answered,  with  an  oily  smile,  wondering  mutely  to 
himself  whether  this  was  a  dodge  to  obtain  fresh 
credit. 

Eeggie  read  the  thought  in  his  eye,  and  gave  a  nod 
of  dissent,  to  correct  the  misapprehension  before  it 
went  any  furiher. 

*  No,  it  ain't  that  this  time,  Morton,'  he  said  briskly, 
with  charming  sociality.  *  No  larks,  I  promise  you ! 
I'm  on  the  pay  just  now;  come  into  a  little  oof,  and 
arranged  with  my  people.'  (That  impersonal  form 
sounds  so  much  more  manly,  and  so  much  more 
chivalrous,  than  if  one  were  to  say  outright,  *my 
sister  !')  *  But  I  want  some  weeds,  too,  now  I  come 
to  think  of  it,  so  you  may  send  me  round  a  couple  of 


?WPfS^l?P^ 


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182 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


I 


boxes  of  those  old  Porto  Kicos.  But,  if  you  like,  you 
needn't  deliver  them  till  after  the  bill's  paid.  Only,' 
he  added,  looking  his  purveyor  very  straight  in  the 
face  with  a  furtive  yet  searching  glance,  *  I'd  like  you 
to  put  them  down  on  the  bill,  don't  you  know ;  and, 
if  it's  all  the  same  to  you,  I'd  like  you  to  antedate 
them — say  last  February— or  else  I  expect  my  people 
won't  pay,  and  will  cut  up  rusty.' 

The  tobacconist  smiled  a  meaning  smile.  He  was 
well  acquainted  long  since  with  such  threadbare  little 
ruses,  which,  after  the  fashion  of  gentlemen  doing  a 
risky  trade  with  young  men  about  town,  he  condoned 
as  in  the  end  very  good  for'  business. 

*  All  right,  sir,'  he  answered,  with  a  nod ;  *  I  quite 
understand.  They  shall  be  entered  as  you  wish.  We 
deal  as  between  men.  And  just  to  show  you,  sir,  that 
I  trust  you  down  to  the  ground,  and  have  perfect 
confidence  in  your  honour  as  a  gentleman — there  need 
be  no  trouble  about  waiting  for  payment;  I'll  send 
the  cigars  up  to  your  rooms  this  evening.  Will  you 
take  a  weed  now,  sir  ?  I  can  offer  you  a  really  very 
nice  Havana.' 

Reggie  was  so  delighted  with  the  encouraging  result 
of  this  first  attempt,  that  he  ventured  to  go  a,  single 
step  further  in  the  same  direction.  It's  convenient, 
don't  yon  know,  for  a  gentleman  to  have  a  little  spare 
cash  in  land  for  emergencies  like  the  projected  visit 
to  Richiiiond. 

*  And  look  here,  Morton,*  he  went  on  evasively, 
*  would  you  nind  just  doing  me  a  very  small  favour  ? 
I'm  in  want  of  ready  cash  ;  no  rhino  in  hand :  but  my 
people,  I'm  proud  to  say,  are  behaving  like  bricks. 
They're  paying  up  everything.  They'll  settle  anything 
in  reason  I  bring  in  just  now  as  part  of  my  embarrass- 


i 


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w^mWmW^^- 


mmt^mmm 


WITHOUT  SECUklTV 


185 


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ments.  They're  prepared  for  a  lump  of  it  Could  you 
make  it  convenient  just  to  lend  me  a  mere  trifle  of 
twenty-five  quid  for  the  immediate  present?  A  nominal 
loan,  don't  you  know,  not  to  take  effect  till  I'v6  paid 
my  debts — but  antedate  the  I  0  U,  say,  from  last 
December  or  January?  It'd  give  me  a  little  ready 
money  for  current  expenses,  don't  you  see,  which  is 
really  an  element  "making  for  virtue,"  as  Charlie 
Owen  says,  because  it  prevents  one  from  getting 
into  new  debt  the  very  day  one's  out  of  the  old 
one !' 

^  Morton  hummed  and  hawed ;  to  antedate  the  I  0  U 
was  a  felonious  act,  he  rather  fancied ;  but  in  the  end 
he  gave  way,  and. the  net  result  of  Mr.  Reginald's  day 
was  finally  this  :  that  he  had  induced  poor  Kathleen, 
out  of  the  slender  patrimony  which  was  all  she  had 
for  certain  to  count  upon  in  the  world,  to  pay  off  his 
debts  for  him ;  and  that  he  now  found  himself  with 
twenty -five  pounds  of  her  money  in  pocket,  with  which 
to  begin  a  fresh  campaign  of  silly  extravagance.  But 
if  you  think  these  proceedings  gave  Mr.  Reginald 
Hesslegrave  a  single  qualm  of  conscience,  you  very 
much  misunderstand  that  young  gentlemu,n's  character. 
On  the  contrary,  meeting  Charlie  Owen  on  the  way 
down  the  Strand,  he  begged  that  like-minded  soul  to 
partake  of  dinner  with  him  forthwith  at  a  first-class 
restaurant,  triumphantly  confided  to  him  in  the  course 
of  the  meal,  withe u'  --^tenuating  aught  or  setting  down 
aught  in  malice,  the  whole  of  these  two  dialogues,  and 
finally  extended  to  him  a  cordial  invitation  to  share  a 
boat  up  the  river  with  him  and  the  Clarkes,  some  day 
very  soon,  out  of  the  remainder  of  poor  Kitty's  plun- 
dered money. 


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wm^mm^w^w^^ 


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r84 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


CHAPTEK  XVII. 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  DECOY  DUCK. 


It  was  about  these  same  days  that  the  brand-new 
Lord  Axminster,  strolling  down  the  Row  one  afternoon 
arm  in  arm  with  his  impecunious  friend  Captain 
Bourchier,  nodded  a  little  familiarly  to  a  very  pretty 
girl  on  a  neat  chestnut  mare,  accompanied  by  a  groom 
of  the  starchiest  respectability.  Lord  Axminster's 
salute  was  too  easy-going,  indeed,  to  be  described  as  a 
bow ;  it  resembled  rather  the  half-playful  bob  with 
which  one  touches  one's  hat  to  some  man  acquc^int- 
ance.  But  the  pretty  girl  considered  a  recognition,  no 
matter  how  scanty,  from  a  man  in  Lord  Axminster's 
position,  too  important  a  matter  to  be  casually  thrown 
away  ;  and  reining  in  her  mount,  she  drew  near  to  the 
rails,  and  exclaimed  in  a  saucy  yet  sleepy  voice  :        \ 

*  Well,  how  goes  it  this  morning  ?' 

*  Oh,  all  right,'  Lord  Axminster  answered  in  a  non- 
chalant tone.  *  Are  you  going  to  the  Graham  Pringles' 
hop  this  evening  ?'  -  .        < 

*  I"  don't  think  so,'  the  pretty  girl  responded  with  a 
careless  smile.  *  Too  hot,  you  know,  for  dancing.' 
Which  was  a  graceful  way  of  covering  the  unacknow- 
ledged truth  that  she  had  not  in  point  of  fact  received 
an  invitation. 

Lord  Axminster  asked  a  few  more  of  the  usual  use- 
less society  questions,  and  then  stifled  a  yawn.  The 
pretty  girl  stroked  her  mare's  glossy  neck,  and  with 
an  easy  nod  went  on  her  way  again,  rejoicing  in  the 
consciousness  that  she  had  attracted  the  attention  of 
the  loungers  by  the  rails  as  the  acquaintance  of  a 


. 


.-^«?  IE«! 


wm^smm^mmmmimimifi^^ 


TnE  HEART  OF  THE  DECOY  iDUCtt 


185 


:%     ■ ,  ■ 


u 


genuine  nobleman.    As  soon  as  she  had  gone,  Captam 
Bourchier  turned  to  his  friend. 

*  I  say,  Axminster,'  he  observed  with  a  tinge  of 
querulousness  in  his  voice,  *  you  might  have  introduced 
me.  I  call  it  beastly  mean  of  a  man  to  keep  all  his 
good  things  to  himself  like  that.  Who  is  the  young 
woman  ?    She's  confoundedly  good-looking.' 

'Yes,  she  is  a  nice  little  thing,'  Axminster  admitted, 
half  grudgingly.  *  Nothing  in  her,  of  course,  and  a 
kind  of  sleepy  Venus ;  but  distinctly  nice-looking,  if 
you  care  for  them  that  way.  A  trifle  vulgar,  though ; 
and  more  than  a  trifle  silly.  But  she's  good  enough 
for  a  trip  up  the  river,  don't  you  know.  The  sort  of 
girl  one  can  endure  from  eighteen  to  eight-and-twenty.' 

'Who  is  she?'  Captain  Bourchier  asked,  looking 
after  her  with  obvious  interest. 

*  Who  is  she  ?    Ah,  there  you  come  to  the  point. 
Well,   that's    just  it ;    who  is    phe  ?     Why,   Spider 
Clarke's  daughter.    You've  heard  of  her — the  Decoy- 
Duck.' 

Captain  Bourchier  pursed  his  lips.  The  news  evi- 
dently interested  him. 

*  So  that's  the  Decoy  Duck !'  he  repeated  slowly 
with  a  broadening  smile.  *  So  that's  Spider  Clarke's 
Decoy  Duck!  Well,  I  don't  wonder  she  serves  her 
purpose.  She's  as  personable  a  girl  as  I've  seen  for 
a  twelvemonth.' 

*  She  is  pretty,'  Lord  Axminster  admitted  in  the 
same  grudging  fashion.  "      ^ 

'  Any  brothers  ?'  Captain  Bourchier  asked,  as  though 
the  question  were  one  of  not  the  slightest  importance. 
Lord  Axminster  smiled. 

*  Ah,  there  you  go  straight  to  the  point,'  he  an- 
swered, '  like  a  good  man  ol  business !    That'3  just  it ; 


.-r,i 


M4f^iiimm^mmw^!^:^<^ 


'-^frrn;. 


186 


AT  UAkKET  VAtUG 


no  brothers.  She's  the  only  child  of  her  father,  and 
he's  a  money-lender.  I  admire  you,  Bourchier,  for 
the  frank  and  straightforward  way  you  put  your  finger 
on  the  core  of  whatever  subject  you  deal  with.  No 
beating  aboiit  the  bush  or  unnecessary  sentimentality 
about  you,  dear  boy!  She  has  no  brothers;  she 
represents  the  entire  reversionary  interest,  at  fourteen 
per  cent.,  in  old  Spider  Clarke's  money.* 

Captain  Bourchier  assumed  at  once  an  apologetic 
air. 

*  Well,  you  see,'  he  said  candidly,  *  if  one's  looking 
out  for  tin,  it's  such  a  great  point  to  find  the  tin  com- 
bined with  a  young  woman  who  isn't  wholly  and 
entirely  distasteful  to  one.  I  don't  go  in  for  senti- 
ment, as  you  justly  observe ;  but,  hang  it  all !  I  don't 
want  to  go  and  fling  myself  away  upon  the  very  first 
young  woman  that  ever  turns  up  with  a  few  thousands 
to  her  name,  irrespective  of  the  question  whether  she's 
one-eyed  or  humpbacked,  a  woolly-haired  nigger  or 
a  candidate  for  a  lunatic  asylum.  Now,  this  girl's 
good-looking ;  she's  straight  and  well  made ;  and  I 
suppose  she  has  the  oof ;  so,  if  one's  going  to  give  up 
one's  freedom  for  a  woman  at  all,  I  should  say  the 
Decoy  Duck  was  well  worth  inquiring  about.* 

*  Very  possibly,'  Lord  Axminster  replied,  as  one  who 
dismisses  an  uninteresting  subject. 

'Well,  has  she  the  dibs?  That's  the  question,* 
Captain  Bourchier  continued,  returning  to  the  charge 
undismayed,  as  becomes  a  cavalry  officer. 

*  Spider  Clarke  is  rich,  I  suppose,'  Lord  Axminster 
answered  with  a  little  irritability.  '  He  ought  to  be, 
I  know.  He's  had  enough  out  of  we,  anyhow.  I'm 
one  of  his  flies.  He  did  all  those  bills  for  me,  before 
anybody  believed  my  cousin  Bertie  was  really  dead ; 


•^     ■'^fB^-". 


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i»ii,v.  '»•'  'urfw-mmf^mm^ 


"m 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  DECOY  DUCK 


187 


V 


and  as  it  was  very  speculative  business,  of  course  he 
did  them  at  a  heavy  discount.  He  feathered  his  nest 
from  me.  His  kites  must  have  swallowed  up  five 
years  at  least  of  the  Membury  rent-roll,  I  should 
think,  before  he  was  "through  with  it,"  as  that 
American  girl  says.  I  know  he's  left  me  pretty  well 
cleaned  out.  And  Florrie  will  have  it  all,  I  suppose. 
The  girl's  name  is  Florrie.' 

*  Do  you  think  Lady  Axminster  would  ask  me  to 
meet  her  ?'  Captain  Bourchier  inquired  tentatively. 

The  new  peer  raised  his  eyebrows. 

*  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,'  he  replied  with  a  doubtful 
air,  like  one  who  could  hardly  answer  for  Lady  Ax- 
minster's  conduct.  *  They  are  not  exactly  the  sort  of 
people  my  wife  cares  to  ask — not  even  before  we'd 
got  th-'ngs  set  straight  with  them  financially.  Her 
acquaintance  with  Miss  Florrie  and  Miss  Florrie's 
mamma  was  always  of  the  most  formal  and  perfunc- 
tory description.  Besides,  if  you  want  to  know  the 
girl,  there's  no  need  to  approach  her  as  if  she  were  a 
Duchess.  It's  easy  enough  for  anybody  with  a  stiver 
to  his  name  to  pick  up  Florrie  Clarke's  acquaintance.' 

*0h  yes,  of  course;  I  can  see  that  for  myself,' 
Captain  Bourchier  went  on  with  the  same  cynical  can- 
dour. *  It's  plain  enough  to  anyone  she's  the  sort  of 
young  lady  who's  directly  approachable  from  all  quar- 
ters. But  that's  not  what  I  want,  don't  you  see  ?  I 
want  to  be  introduced  to  her,  fair  and  square,  in  the 
society  way,  and  to  judge  for  myself  whether  or  not 
she'll  do  for  me.  If  she  does  do,  then  I  shall  have 
put  things  from  the  first  upon  a  proper  basis,  so  that 
her  father  and  mother  will  understand  at  once  in 
what  spirit  I  approach  her.  Hang  it  all,  you  know, 
Axminster,  when  a  man  thinks  it's  on  the  cards  ho 


i88 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


'.(■ 


may  possibly  marry  a  girl,  why,  respect  for  the  lady 
who  may  in  the  end  become  his  wife  makes  him  desire 
to  conduct  all  his  relations  with  her,  from  the  begin- 
ning, decently  and  in  order.' 

Lord  Axminster's  lips  cm*led. 

'  I  appreciate  the  delicacy  of  your  feelings,  my  dear 
boy,'  he  answered,  with  a  faint  touch  of  irony  ;  *  and 
if  Ethel  doesn't  mind,  you  shall  meet  the  girl  at 
dinner.' 

It  was  a  proud  evening  indeed  for  Mrs.  Clarke  and 
Florrie  when  first  they  dined  at  Lady  Axminster's. 
To  be  sure,  their  hostess  put  up  h^r  tortoise-shell  eye- 
glasses more  than  once  during  the  course  of  the 
dinner,  and  surveyed  the  money-lender's  wife  through 
them  with  a  good  long  stony  British  stare,  for  all  the 
world  as  if  she  were  a  specimen  of  some  rare  new 
genus,  just  introduced  from  Central  Africa  into  the 
Zoological  Gardens  of  English  society.  But  Mrs. 
Clarke,  who  was  too  stout  to  notice  these  little  things, 
lived  on  through  the  stares  in  the  complacent  satis- 
faction of  the  diamonds  that  glittered  on  her  own 
expansive  neck ;  while  as  for  Florrie,  witli  her  short 
black  hair  even  more  frizzed  and  fluffy  than  ever,  she 
was  too  deeply  taken  up  with  that  charming  Captain 
Bourchier  to  notice  what  was  happening  between  her 
mamma  and  their  hostess.  Captain  Bourchier,  she 
felt,  was  quite  the  right  sort  of  man — a  perfect  gentle- 
man. He  was  older  than  Beggie  Hesslegrave,  of 
course,  but  very  nearly  as  good-looking :  and  then,  he 
was  well  connected,  and  held  such  delightfully  cynical 
views  of  life — in  fact,  disbelieved  in  everybody  and 
everything,  which,  as  all  the  world  knows,  is  so 
extremely  high-toned.  Miss  Florrie  was  delightec* 
with  him.    He  wasn't  rich,  to  be  sure ;  that  papa  and 


^*»  I'M 


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;»'<^n"' 


■^ 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  DECOY  DUCK 


189 


mamma  had  heard ;  but  he  was  the  son  of  an 
Honourable,  .  id  the  first-cousin  of  a  peer,  not  to 
mention  remote  chances  of  succeeding  through  his 
mother  to  a  baronetcy  in  abeyance.  Florrie  felt  at 
once  this  was  a  very  different  case  from  poor  dear 
Keggie  Hesslegrave's ;  and  when  at  the  end  of  the 
evening  Captain  Bourchier  gave  her  hand  the  most 
delicately  chivalrous  pressure  imaginable,  and  trusted 
Mrs.  Clarke  would  allow  him  to  call  some  day  soon  at 
Kutland  Gate,  Florrie  realized  on  the  spot  this  was 
genuine  business,  and  responded  with  a  maiden  blush 
of  the  purest  water.  That  dainty  little  baby  face  was 
always  equal  to  such  an  emergency ;  for  Miss  Florrie 
had  the  manners  of  the  most  shrinking  ingdnue,  with 
the  mind  and  soul  which  might  reasonably  be  expected 
of  Spider  Clarke's  daughter. 

And  yet  not  wholly  so,  as  things  turned  out  in  the 
end  :  for,  after  Captain  Bourchier  had  called  once  or 
twice  at  Kutland  Gate,  and  had  duly  poured  into  Miss 
Florrie's  ears  his  tale  of  artless  love^  and  been  oflScially 
accepted  by  Miss  Florrie's  papa  and  mamma  as  the 
prospective  inheritor  of  Miss  Florrie's  thousands,  a 
strange  thing  came  to  pass  in  the  inmost  recesses  of 
Miss  Florrie's  heart — a  thing  that  Miss  Florrie  herself 
could  never  possibly  have  counted  upon.  For  when 
she  came  to  tell  Eeggie  Hesslegrave  that  she  had 
received  a  most  eligible  offer  from  a  captain  in  a 
cavalry  regiment,  and  had  accepted  it  with  the  advice 
and  consent  of  her  parents,  poor  Eeggie's  face  grew  so 
pale  and  downcast  that  Florrie  fairly  pitied  him.  And 
then,  with  a  flash  of  surprise,  the  solemn  discovery 
burst  in  upon  her  that  in  spite  of  papa  and  mamma, 
and  the  principles  they  had  instilled,  she  and  Eeggie 
Hesslegrave  were  actually  in  love  with  one  another. 


^V'i«i)[|{aiii)Sih<(i£ilitwit'i«i^ 


■  "j!^)J*.»P^^^»  ff^'- 


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^  fe 


It  was  true,  quite  true :  so  far  as  those  two  young 
people  were  capable  of  loving,  they  were  actually  in 
love  with  one  another.  The  human  heart,  that  very 
incalculable  factor  in  the  problem  of  life,  had  taken  its 
revenge  at  last  on  Miss  Florrie.  She  had  been  brought 
up  to  believe  the  heart  was  a  thing  to  be  lightly 
stifled  in  the  interests  of  the  highest  bidder,  social  or 
mercantile ;  and  now  that  she  had  accepted  a  most 
eligible  bid,  all  things  considered,  she  woke  up  all  at 
once  to  sudden  consciousness  of  the  fact  that  her  heart, 
her  heart  too,  had  a  word  to  say  in  this  matter. 
What  she  had  mistaken  for  the  merest  passing  flirta- 
tion with  Eeggie  Hesslegrave  was  in  reality  a  vast 
deal  more  deep  and  serious  than  what  she  had  been 
taught  to  regard  as  the  grave  business  of  life  with 
Captain  Bourchier.  She  had  feelings  a  little  pro- 
founder  and  more  genuine  than  she  suspected.  The 
soul  within  her  was  not  quite  so  dead  as  her  careful 
upbringing  had  led  her  to  believe  it. 

In  point  of  fact,  when  real  tears  rose  spontaneous, 
at  the  announcement,  in  Eeggie  Hesslegrave's  eyes, 
real  tears  rose  to  meet  them  in  lUiss  Florrie'3  in  turn. 
They  were  both  astonished  to  find  how  much  each 
thought  of  the  other. 

Not  that  Florrie  had  the  faintest  intention— just  as 
yet — of  throwing  overboard  her  eligible  cavalry  officer. 
That  would  be  the  purest  Quixotism.  But  she  recog- 
nised at  the  same  time  that  the  cavalry  officer  was 
business,  society,  convention  ;  while  Eeggie  Hessle- 
grave was  now  romance — a  perilous  delight  she  had 
never  till  that  moment  dreamed  of.  As  romance  she 
accepted  Lim,  therefore,  and  much  romance  she  got 
out  of  him ;  risky  romance  of  a  sort  that  stirred  in 
poor  Florrie's  sleepy  sluggish  heart  a  strange  throbbing 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  DECOY  DUCK 


191 


and  beating  never  before  suspected.  She  was  engaged 
to  Captain  Bourchier,  of  course,  and  she  meant  to 
marry  him ;  one  doesn't  throw  overboard  such  a 
chance  as  that  of  placing  one's  self  at  once  in  the 

•  very  thick  of  good  society.  But  week  after  week,  and 
month  after  month,  while  she  met  Captain  Bourchier 
from  time  to  time  at  dance  or  racecourse,  she  still 

'  went  on  writing  in  private  most  passionately  despair- 
ing letters  to  Beggie  Hesslegrave,  whom  she  could 
never  marry.  As  sho  put  it  herself,  she  was  dead 
stuck  on  Beggie.  Week  after  week,  and  month  after 
month,  she  made  stolen  oi^portunities  for  meeting 
him,  unawares,  as  it  seemed,  by  Hyde  Park  Corner, 
or  saying  a  few  hurried  words  to  him  as  she  passed  in 
Piccadilly.  Then  the  interviews  between  them  grew 
bolder  and  bolder;  Florrie  pencilled  a  few  hasty 
'   lines : 

*  Will  be  at  the  Academy  with  mamma  to-morrow 

at  ten ;   meet  me,  if  you  can,  in  the  Architectural 

Drawings ;  it's  always  empty.     I'll  leave  mamma  in 

one  of  the  other  rooms  ;  she  doesn't  care  to  go  round 

■  and  look  at  all  the  pictures.* 

And  these  fleeting  moments  grew  dearer  and  ever 
dearer  to  Florrie  Clarke's  mind  ;  they  came  as  a  reve- 
lation to  her  of  a  new  force  in  her  bosom  ;  till  she  got 
engaged  to  Captain  Bourchier,  she  had  never  herself 
suspected  what  profound  capacity  for  a  simple  sort  of 
every-day  romance  existed  within  her 

Moreover,  'tis  a  peculiarity  of  the  thing  we  call  love 
that  it  gets  out  of  every  man  and  every  woman  the 
very  best  that  is  in  them.  Beggie  Hesslegrave  began 
to  feel  himself  in  his  relation  to  Florrie  quite  other 
than  he  ^lad  ever  f^lt  himself  in  an^  other  relation  q| 


M 


npifpjpiijwMWPi'ii.vjw. .    i«  J    i-'Biipi;; 


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in's poor  wasted  existence.  He  loved  that  girl,  with 
lovo  that,  for  him,  was  very  nearly  unselfish.  He 
thou-^lit  of  her  and  he  dreamt  of  her.  He  lived  day 
and  nij,'ht  for  her.  He  risked  Kathleen's  money 
rocklesHly  for  her  sake  on  impossible  outsiders,  and 
bucked  the  favourite  at  race  after  race,  in  utter  dis- 
regard of  worldly  circumstances,  in  order  to  win  her  a 
l)iincely  income.  That  was  about  the  highest  point 
Iteg^'ie's  industry,  affection,  and  unselfishness  could 
loach ;  in  his  way,  he  was  raised  above  his  own  normal 
level.  For  Florrie  he  would  almost  have  consented 
to  wear  an  unfashionable  coat,  or  to  turn  down  his 
trousers  when  Bond  Street  turned  them  up,  or  to  do 
anything,  in  fact,  that  a  woman  could  wish — except 
curb  his  expenditure  and  lay  by  for  the  future. 

So,  for  about  eighteen  months,  things  went  on  in 
this  way  :  and  then  flying  rumours  began  to  flit  about 
town  that  Spider  Clarke  of  late  had  not  been  doing 
quite  so  well  in  his  money-lending  as  usual.  His  star 
was  waning.  It  was  whispered  at  the  clubs  that, 
emboldened  by  his  success  with  Algy  Redburn,  whom 
he  was  known  to  have  financed  during  the  tedious 
course  of  the  Axminster  peerage  case,  he  had  launched 
out  too  freely  into  similar  speculations  elsewhere,  and 
had  burnt  his  fingers  over  the  monetary  affairs  of  a 
very  high  personage.  With  bated  breath,  people 
mentioned  his  Serene  Highness  the  Duke  of  Saxe- 
Weissnichtwo.  Whether  this  was  so  or  not,  it  is 
certain  at  least  that  Spider  Clarke  was  less  in  repute 
in  St.  James's  than  formerly ;  the  ladies  who  returned 
Mrs.  Clarke's  bows  so  coldly  at  the  theatre,  returned 
them  now  with  the  very  faintest  of  possible  inclinations, 
or  affected  to  be  turning  their  opera-glasses  in  the 
opposite  direction,  and  r-ot   to  notice  her.     Even  | 


;i|i«i|i,ipq.i^i>|P|f/<'ip«iq^.vvwi..w<iEi/'w        n,  1. 1  ij)  I mm^m'^ 


■p»«-»(wipfpp^ 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  DECOY  DUCK 


»93 


Captain  Bourchier  himself,  whose  suit;  had  been 
pressed  hard  and  warm  at  first,  began  to  fancy  it  was 
a  precious  good  thing  that  innocent -looking  little 
Decoy  Duck  had  played  so  fast  and  loose  with  him ; 
for,  as  things  were  turning  out  now,  he  was  con- 
foundedly inclined  to  doubt  whether  the  man  who 
got  her  would  get  enough  pickings  with  her  to 
make  it  worth  his  while  to  give  up  that  very  mys- 
terious entity  he  called  his  liberty.  Henceforth,  he 
was  seen  less  and  less  often  at  Rutland  Gate,  and 
affected  more  and  more  at  the  Flamingo  Club  to 
speak  of  his  relations  with  the  Spiderette  as  a  mere 
passing  flirtation,  that  had  never  been  meant  to  come 
to  anything  serious. 

So  matters  went  on  till  the  end  of  the  season. 
Meanwhile,  the  less  Florrie  saw  of  the  accepted  lover, 
the  more  and  more  did  she  see  of  the  clandestine  and 
romantic  one.  As  for  Reggie,  he  began  to  plan  out  a 
mighty  scheme  for  winning  himself  fortune  at  a  single 
stroke — a  heroic  investment  of  every  penny  he  could 
raise,  by  pledging  his  slender  credit,  on  a  famous  tip 
for  the  coming  Cesarewitch.  He  intended  to  be  rich, 
and  to  cut  out  that  beastly  Bourchier  man,  and  to 
make  himself  a  swell,  and  to  marry  Florrie.  On  the 
very  afternoon  when  the  news  of  his  fortune  was  to 
reach  London  by  telegram,  however,  he  received  a 
despatch  at  his  office  in  the  City  which  considerably 
disquieted  him.  Just  at  the  first  blush,  to  be  sure,  he 
thought  it  must  be  meant  to  announce  the  triumph  of 
Canterbury  Bell,  whom  he  had  *  backed  for  his  pile '; 
but  when  he  opened  it,  what  he  read  was  simply 

■  ■'   ■."  '■'"'-  '-"",'    i'        ''.  -■     '■.*.  "  ^'  .- 

*  Come  round  to-night  to  see  me ;  ask  for  me  at  the 


■'■t:: 


194 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


hall  door ;  important  news ;  must  speak  with  you. 
— I'lorrib.* 


if 

i 
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vr 


^t 


Mr.  Eeginald  wondered  much  what  this  message 
could  portend.  He  determined  to  go  round  to  Kutland 
Gate  at  the  earliest  possible  moment — as  soon  as  he 
had  satisfied  himself  that  Canterbury  Bell  had  be- 
haved as  he  had  a  right  to  expect  of  such  a  filly,  and 
that  he  was  indeed  the  possessor  of  a  marrying 
competence. 


CHAPTEK  XVIII. 

FRECONTRACT  OF  MATRIMONY. 

That  night  was  the  most  eventful  of  Mr.  Eeginald's 
life.  For  some  weeks  beforehand,  indeed,  he  bq,d 
lived  in  a  perfect  ferment  of  feverish  excitement, 
intending,  in  his  own  expressive  dialect,  to  *  pull  ojBf  a 
double  coup '  on  the  day  when  Canterbury  Bell  pro- 
vided him  at  one  stroke  with  a  colossal  fortune.  To 
say  the  truth,  he  held  in  his  pocket,  against  this  fore- 
gone contingency,  a  most  important  Document,  which 
he  designed  to  pull  forth  *and  exhibit  theatrically  to 
the  obdurate  Florrie  at  such  a  dramatic  moment  of 
triumph,  that  even  Florrie  herself  would  have  nothing 
left  for  it  but  to  throw  overboard  incontinently  the 
cavalry  officer,  and  fly  forthwith  to  love  in  a  cottage 
with  her  faithful  admirer.  Mr.  Eeginald  had  planned 
this  all  out  beforehand  m  the  minutest  detail ;  and  he 
had  so  little  doubt  of  Canterbury  Bell's  ability  to  land 
him  at  once  in  fame  and  fortune,  that  he  pulled  toiiii 


PRECONTRACT  OF  MATRIMONY 


m 


the  Documont  many  times  during  the  course  of  the 
day,  f«nd  read  it  through  to  himself  once  more  with 
the  intensest  satisfaction. 

Still,  it's  hard  to  wait  for  hours,  slaving  and  toiling 
in  an  office  in  the  City,  when  you  know  full  well — on 
the  unimpeachable  authority  of  a  private  tip — that 
wealth  and  immunity  are  waiting  for  you  all  the  while 
— to  a  moral  certainty — at  a  bookmaker's  at  New- 
market. But  necessity  knows  no  law ;  and  Mr. 
Keginald  nathless  so  endured  till  five  in  the  evening. 
By  that  hour  he  had  reached  the  well-known  office  in 
the  Strand  where  he  was  wont  to  await  the  first  tele- 
grams of  results  from  the  racecourses  of  his  country. 
As  he  approached  those  fateful  doors,  big  with  hope 
and  apprehension,  a  strange  trembling  seized  him. 
People  were  surging  and  shoutirg  round  the  window 
of  the  office  in  wild  excitement.  All  the  evil  passions 
of  squalid  London  were  l^t  loose  there.  But  Mr. 
Keginald' s  experienced  eye  told  him  at  once  the  deadly 
news  that  the  favourite  must  have  won — for  the  crowd 
was  a  joyous  one.  Now,  the  crowd  in  front  of  a  sport- 
ing paper's  office  on  the  evening  of  a  race  day  is  only 
jubilant  when  the  favourite  has  won;  otherwise,  of 
course,  it  stands  morose  and  silent  before  the  tidings 
of  its  failure.  But  Canterbury  Bell  was  what  Mr. 
Beginald  himself  would  have  described  in  the  classic 
tongue  of  the  turf — the  muddy  turf  of  Fleet  Street — 
as  *  a  rank  outsider,*  for  it  is  only  by  backing  a  rank 
outsider  at  heavy  odds,  *  on  unexceptionable  informa- 
tion,' that  you  can  hope  to  haul  in  an  enormous 
fortune  at  a  stroke,  without  risking  a  corresponding 
or  equal  capital  to  start  with.  So  the  paeans  of  deUght 
from  the  crowd  that  danced  and  yelled  outside  the 
office  of  the  sporting  paper  made  Beggie's  heart  sink 


lilfl.>JJ^^.*.«JfJ^|Hi}if.J«il^'^^^^ 


196 


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ominously.  Could  his  tipster  have  played  him  false  ? 
It  looked  very  much  like  it. 

Worse  and  worse,  as  he  drew  nearer  he  could 
catch  the  very  words  of  that  jubilant  cry — *  The 
Plunger  !  The  Plunger  !'  A  hundred  voices  echoed 
it  wildly  to  and  fro  in  their  excitement.  The  whole 
air  was  fairly  rent  with  it — 'The  Plunger!  The 
Plunger ! !' 

Now,  the  Plunger  was  the  name  of  that  wretched 
horse,  the  favourite!  Keggie  came  up  with  bated 
breath.    His  heart  stood  still  within  him. 

*  What's  won  ?'  he  asked  a  costermonger,  who  was 
shouting  with  the  rest.  ' 

And  the  man,  giving  him  a  cool  stare,  made  answer 
at  once: 

*  Wy,  can't  you  see  it  up  there,  you  image  ?  The 
Plunger  !     The  Plunger !' 

Eeggie  raised  his  eyes  at  once  to  the  big  lime-lit 
transparency  on  the  front  of  the  signboard,  and  read 
there  his  doom.    It  ivas  The  Plunger  ! 

*  And  Canterbury  Bell  ?'  he  gasped  out,  half  clutch- 
ing the  man  for  support. 

'  Canterbury  Bell !'  the  costermonger  responded 
with  an  instinctive  gesture  of  profound  contempt. 
*  You  'aven't  gone  and  risked  yer  money  on  Canter- 
bury Bell,  'ave  yer  ?  Wy,  Canterbury  Bell  was  never 
in  it  at  all.  I  could  'a  told  you  that  much  if  you'd  'a 
axed  me  aforehand.  Canterbury  Bell's  a  bloomin* 
fraud.  She  wan't  meant'  to  stay.  She  wan't  never 
BO  much  as  in  it.'  .V 

Eeggie's  brain  reeled  round.  With  a  sickening  sense 
of  disillusion  and  disappointment,  he  clutched  the 
Document  in  his  pocket.  Then  all  was  up.  He  could 
never  marry  Florrie.    The  bubble  had  burst.    He  had 


^/f^w^^w'w^mmm^mf^f^i!^^ 


PRECONTRACT  OF  MATRIMONY 


m 


chucked  away  his  bottom  dollar  on  a  *  blooming  fraud,' 
as  the  costermonger  called  it.  Life  was  now  one  vast 
blank.  He  didn't  know  where  to  turn  for  consolation 
and  comfort. 

His  first  idea,  in  fact,  was  to  slink  off,  unperceived, 
and  never  keep  the  engagement  with  Florrie  at  all. 
What  use  was  he  now  to  Florrie  or  to  anybody  ?  He 
was  simply  stone-broke.  Not  a  girl  in  the  world 
would  care  for  him.  His  second  idea  was  to  fling 
himself  forthwith  over  Waterloo  Bridge;  but  from 
that  heroic  cowardice  he  was  deterred  by  the  con- 
sideration that  the  water  was  cold,  and  if  he  did,  he 
would  probably  drown  before  anyone  could  rescue 
him,  for  he  was  a  feeble  swimmer.  His  third  and 
final  idea  was  to  go  and  tell  Florrie  every  word  of 
what  had  happened,  and  to  throw  himself,  so  to 
speak,  on  her  generosity  and  her  mercy. 

Third  ideas  are  best.  So  he  went,  after  all,  to 
Butland  Gate,  much  dispirited.  A  man-servant  in  a 
mood  as  dejected  as  his  own  opened  the  front  door  to 
him.  Was  Miss  Clarke  at  home  ?  Yes,  the  servant 
replied  still  more  dejectedly  than  ever ;  if  he  liked,  he 
could  see  her. 

Beggie  stepped  in,  all  wonder.  He  rather  fancied 
that  man-servant,  too,  must  have  lost  his  all  through 
the  astounding  and  incomprehensible  victory  of  The 
Plunger.  - 

In  the  drawing-room,  Florrie  met  him,  very  red  as 
to  the  eyes.  Her  mien  was  strange.  She  kissed  him 
with  frank  tenderness.  Beggie  stared  wider  than 
ever.  It  began  to  strike  him  that  all  London  m  )st 
have  backed  Canterbury  Bell  for  a  place,  and  gowj 
bankrupt  accordingly.  Argentines  were  nothing  to  it. 
He  had  visions  of  a  crash  on  'Change  to-morrow. 


IP 


fippii^j:,  Bwm,mi^. 


198 


AT  MARKET  VALUE' 


Wi 


But  Florrie  held   his    hand  in  hers  with  genuine 
gentleness. 

'Well,  you've  heard  what's  happened?'  she  said. 

*  You  dear  !  ana  still  you  come  to  see  me  ?' 

'  What  ?  The  Plunger  ?'  Reggie  ejaculated,  unable 
to  realize  any  save  his  own  misfortune. 

*  The  Plunger  !'  Florrie  repeated  in  a  vague  sort  of 
reverie.  '  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  It's 
this  about  poor  papa.    Of  course  you've  heard  it  ?' 

'  Not  a  word,'  Eeggie  answered,  with  a  pervading 
sense  that  misfortunes,  like  twins,  never  come  single. 

*  Has  anything  dreadful  happened  ?' 

*  Anything  dreadful  ?'  Florrie  echoed,  bursting  at 
once  into  tears.  *  Oh,  Eeggie,  you  don't  know ! 
Everything  dreadful!  everything!'  And  she  buried 
her  fluffy  head  most  unaffectedly  in  his  shoulder. 

Reggie  was  really  too  chivalrous  a  man,  at  such  a 
moment,  when  beauty  was  in  distress,  to  remember 
his  own  troubles.  He  kissed  away  Florrie's  tears,  as 
a  man  fet  Is  bound  to  do  when  beauty  flings  itself  on 
him,  weeping ;  and  as  soon  as  she  was  restored  to  the 
articulate  condition,  he  asked,  somewhat  tremulous, 
for  further  particulars.  For  'everything,'  though 
extensive  enough  to  cover  all  the  truth,  yet  seems  to 
fail  somewhat  on  the  score  of  explicitness. 

'Look  at  the  paper!'  Florrie  cried  with  another 
burst,  all  sobs.  *  Oh,  Reggie,  it's  too  dreadful !  I  just 
couldn't  tell  you  it.' 

She  handed  him  an  evening  journal  as  she  spoke. 
Reggie  glanced  at  the  place  to  which  her  plump  little 
forefinger  vaguely  referred  him.  The  words  swam 
before  his  eyes.  This  was  truly  astonishing:  'Arrest 
of  the  Well-known  Money-lender,  Mr.  "  Spider " 
Clarke,    for   Fraud    and    Embezzlement.     Alleged 


'^^^^^'^^''F'pS^P'W'^'''^'^^ 


r^ 


PRECONTRACT  OF  MATRIMONY 


»99 


Gigantic  System  of  Wholesale  Forgery.  Liabilities, 
Eighty  Thousand ;  Probable  Assets,  Nil.  The  Spider's 
Web,  and  the  Flies  that  filled  it !' 

Eeggie  read  it  all  through  with  a  cold  thrill  of 
horror.  To  think  that  Florrie's  papa  should  have 
turned  out  a  fraud,  only  second  to  Canterbury  BeP,  in 
whom  he  trusted  !  It  was  terrible,  terrible  !  Ab  soon 
as  he  had  read  it,  he  turned  with  swimming  eyes  of 
affection  to  Florrie.  His  own  misfortunes  had  put 
him  already  into  a  melting  mood.  He  bent  down  to 
her  tenderly.    He  kissed  her  forehead  twice. 

*  My  darling,'  he  said  gently,  with  real  sympathy 
and  softness,  *  I'm  so  sorry  for  you !  so  sorry !  But, 
oh,  Florrie,  I'm  so  glad  you  thought  of  sending  for 
me.' 

Florrie  drew  out  a  letter  in  answer  from  her  pocket. 

'  And  just  to  think,'  she  cried  with  flashing  eyes, 
handing  it  across  to  him  with  indignation,  *  that 
dreadful  other  man — before  the  thing  had  happened 
one  single  hour — the  hateful,  hateful  wretch — he 
wrote  me  that  letter !  Did  ever  you  read  anything  so 
mean  and  cruel  ?  I  know  what  to  think  of  him  now, 
and,  thank  goodness,  I've  done  with  him  !' 

Eeggie  read  the  letter  through  with  virtuous  horror. 
As  poor  Florrie  observed,  it  was  a  sufficiently  heartless 
one.  It  set  forth,  in  the  stiffest  and  most  conven- 
tional style,  that,  after  the  events  which  had  hap- 
pened to-day  before  the  eyes  of  all  London,  Miss 
Clarke  would  of  course  recognise  how  impossible  it 
was  for  an  officer  and  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of 
honour  to  maintain  his  relations  any  longer  with  her 
family;  and  it  therefore  begged  her  to  consider  the 
writer  in  future  as  nothing  more  than  hers  truly, 

FoNSONBY  Stbetfeild  Boubchieb. 


p-,* 


si<i 


/  * 


pijlj,  ,|ii,|i^«i^«lipi4pp|jjj|j^,f^ 


PP^^PP 


n 


200 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


\^ 


Reggie  handed  it  back  with  a  thrill  of  genuine 
disgust.  *  The  man's  a  cad,'  he  said  shortly ;  and,  to 
do  him  justice,  he  felt  it.  Meanness  or  heartlessness 
of  that  calculated  sort  was  wholly  alien  to  Reginald 
Hesslegrave's  impulsive  nature. 

'  Thank  you,  Reggie,'  Florrie  said,  drawing  nearer 
and  nearer  to  him.  *  But  you  know,  dear,  I  don't 
mind.  I  never  cared  one  pin  for  him.  After  the  first 
few  weeks,  when  I  thought  of  him  beside  you,  I  posi- 
tively hated  him.  That's  the  one  good  thing  that  has 
come  out  of  all  this  trouble  ;  he  won't  bother  me  any 
more ;  I've  got  fairly  rid  of  him.' 

Reggie  pressed  her  to  his  side. 
.  *  Florrie  dear,'  he  whispered  chivalrously,  *  when 
you  talk  like  that,  do  you  know,  you  almost  make  me 
feel  glad  all  this  trouble  has  come — if  it  has  had  the 
effect  of  making  us  draw  closer  to  one  another.' 

And  that  it  had  that  effect  at  that  present  moment 
was  a  fact  just  then  visibly  and  physically  demon- 
strable. 

Florrie  laid  the  frizzy  curls  for  a  minute  or  two  on 
his  shoulder.  In  spite  of  her  misfortunes,  she  was 
momentarily  quite  happy. 

*  I  always  loved  you,  Reggie,'  she  cried ;  *  and  I 
can't  be  sorry  for  anything  that  makes  you  love  me.* 
And  she  nestled  to  his  bosom  with  the  most  confiding 
self-surrender. 

This  confidence  on  Florrie's  part  begot  in  return 
equal  confidence  on  Reggie's.  Before  many  minutes 
he  had  begun  to  tell  that  innocent,  round-faced  girl 
how  narrowly  he  had  just  missed  a  princely  fortune, 
and  how  opulent  he  would  have  been  if  only  Canter- 
bury Bell  has  behaved  as  might  have  been  expected  of 
80  fine  a  filly. 


h^rr^lgs 


STi'^WfWfS'W'^Jrs^^ 


wmm&m' 


^mmmm 


PRECONTRACT  OF  MATRIMONY 


20 1 


*  And  it  was  all  for  you,  J^'lorrie,'  he  said  ruefully, 
fingering  the  Document  all  the  while  in  the  recesses  of 
his  pocket.  *  It  was  all  for  you,  dear  one !  I  thought  I 
should  be  able  to  come  round  to  you  to-night  in,  oh 
such  triumph,  and  tell  you  of  my  good-luck,  and  ask 
you  to  throw  that  vile  Bourchier  creature  overboard 
for  my  sake,  and  marry  me  offhand — because  I  so 
loved  you.  And  now  it's  all  gone  smash — through 
that  beastly  wretch,  The  Plunger.' 

'  Did  you  really  think  all  that  ?'  Florrie  cried,  look- 
ing up  at  him  through  her  tears,  and  smiling  con- 
fidingly. 

*  Do  you  doubt  it  ?*  Reggie  asked,  half  drawing  the 
Docunlent  from  the  bottom  of  his  pocket. 

*  N-no,  darling.  I  don't  exactly  doubt  it,'  Florrie 
answered,  gazing  still  harder.  *  But  I  wonder  ...  if 
you  will  say  it  just  now,  so  as  to  please  me.' 

Reggie's  time  had  come.  Fortune  favours  the  brave. 
He  held  forth  the  Document  itself  in  triumph  at  the 
dramatic  moment.  After  all,  it  had  come  in  useful. 
*  Read  that !'  he  cried  aloud  in  a  victorious  voice,  like 
a  man  who  produces  irrefragable  evidence. 

Florrie  gazed  at  the  very  official -looking  paper  in 
intense  surprise.  She  hardly  knew  what  to  make  of 
it.  It  was  an  instrument  signed  by  the  Right  Reverend 
Father  in  God,  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury ;  and  it  set 
forth  in  fitting  terms  his  archiepiscopal  blessing  upon 
a  proposed  union  between  Reginald  Francis  Hessle- 
grave.  Bachelor,  of  the  Parish  of  St.  Mary  Abbot's 
Kensington,  and  Florence  Amelia  Barton  Clarke, 
Spinster,  of  the  Parish  of  Westminster. 

Florrie  gazed  at  it,  all  puzzled. 

*  Why,  what  does  this  mean,  dearest  ?'  she  faltered 
out  with  emotion.    *  I  don't  at  all  understand  it.' 


20S 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


That  was  a  proud  moment  for  Eeggie — about  the 
proudest  of  his  Hfe. 

'Well,  it's  called  a  special  license,  dear,*  he  an- 
swered, bending  over  her.  *  You  see,  Florrio,  1  took 
it  for  granted  Canterbury  Bell  was  safe  to  win — as 
safe  as  houses — so  I  made  up  my  mind  to  try  a  coup 
beforehand.  I  went  to  the  surrogate  and  swore  a 
declaration * 

*  A  what  ?'  riorrie  exclaimed,  overcome  by  so  niuch 
devotion. 

*  A  declaration,'  Eeggie  continued,  *  don't  you  know 
— a  sort  of  statement  that  we  both  of  us  wished  to  get 
married  at  once,  and  wanted  a  license ;  and  here  the 
license  is  ;  and  I  thought,  when  Canterbury  Bell  had 
won,  and  I  was  as  rich  as  Croesus,  if  I  brought  it  to 
you,  just  so,  you'd  say  like  a  bird :  "  Never  mind  my 
people ;  never  mind  Captain  Bourchier.  I've  always 
loved  you,  Eeggie,  and  now  I'm  going  to  marry  you." 
But  that  beastly  fool  The  Plunger  plunged  in  and 
spoiled  all.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  him,  you  might 
perhaps  have  been  Mrs.  Eeginald  Hesslegrave  to- 
morrow morning.  Mrs.  Eeginald  Hesslegrave  is  a 
first-rate  name,  darling.' 

Florrie  looked  up  at  him  confidingly.  She  recog- 
nised the  adapted  quotation  from  >»  well-known  poet. 

*  And  it's  no  good  now,'  she  said  plaintively,  *  since 
The  Plunger  put  a  stop  to  it  !* 

A  gleam  of  hope  dawned  in  Eeggie's  eyes.  He  was 
in  a  lover'p  mood  :  all  romance  and  poetry. 

*"Well,  the  license  is  all  right,'  he  said,  taking 
Florrie'a  hand  in  his  and  smoothing  it  tenderly. 
*  The  Ucense  is  all  right,  if  it  comes  to  that.  There's 
no  reason,  as  far  as  the  formahties  go,  why  I  shouldn't 
marry  you,  if  you  will,  to-morrow  mjming.' 


immmmmwmm. 


PRECONTRACT  OF  MATRIMONY 


303 


*  Then  what  stands  in  the  way  ?'  Florrie  inquired 
innocently. 

*You,*  Keggie  answered  at  once,  with  a  sudden 
burst  of  gallantry.  *  You  yourself  entirely.  Nothing 
else  prevents  it.* 

Florrie  flung  herself  into  his  arms. 

*  Keggie !  Reggie !'  she  sobbed  out,  *  I  love  you  with 
all  my  heart !  I  love  you !  I  love  you !  You're  the 
only  man  on  earth  I  ever  really  loved.  With  you,  and 
for  your  sake,  I  could  endure  anything — anything.' 

Reggie  gazed  at  her,  entranced.  She  was  really 
very  pretty.  Such  eyes !  such  hair !  He  felt  himself 
at  that  moment  a  noble  creature.  How  splendid  of 
him  thus  to  come,  like  a  modern  Perseus,  to  the 
rescue  of  beauty — of  beauty  in  distress  at^  its  hour  of 
trial !  How  grand  of  him  to  act  in  the  exact  opposite 
way  from  that  detestable  Bourchier  creature,  who  had 
failed  at  a  pinch,  and  to  marry  Florrie  offhand  at  the 
very  time  when  her  father  had  passed  under  a  serious 
cloud,  and  when  there  was  some  sort  of  merit  in 
marrying  her  at  once  without  a  penny  of  expectations ! 
Conduct  like  that  had  a  specious  magnanimity  about 
it  which  captivated  Reginald  Hesslegrave's  romantic 
heart.  The  only  point  in  the  case  he  quite  forgot  to 
consider  was  the  probability  that  Kathleen,  uncon- 
sulted  on  the  project,  might  be  called  upon  to  support 
both  bride  and  bridegroom. 

He  clasped  the  poor  panting  Httle  Decoy  Duck  to 
his  bosom.      i--  \  ,   •. 

'  Flossie  dearest,'  he  murmured,  *  I  have  nothing  ; 
you  have  nothing ;  we  have  both  of  us  nothing.  We 
know  now  it's  only  for  pure,  pure  love  we  can  think  of 
one  another.  I  love  you.  Will  you  take  me  ?  Can 
you  face  it  all  out  with  me  ?' 


T-tr 


^ 


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Florrie  hid  her  face  yet  once  more  in  Reggie's  best 
white  waistcoat.  He  didn't  even  stop  to  reflect  how 
she  tumbled  it. 

'  Darling  !  darling  I'  she  cried.  *  How  unselfish — 
how  noble  of  you !' 

Reggie  drew  himself  up  with  an  ineffable  sense  of 
having  acted,  in  difficult  circumstances,  like  a  perfect 
gentleman.     He  was  proud  of  his  chivalry. 

*  Then  to-morrow,'  he  said  briefly,  *  we  will  be 
married  with  this  license,  as  the  Archbishop  directs, 
at  St.  Mary  Abbott's,  Kensington.* 

Florrie  clung  to  him  with  all  her  arms.  She 
seemed  to  have  a  dozen  of  them. 

*  Oh,  you  dear !'  she  cried,  overjoyed.  *  And  at  such 
a  moment !  How  grand  of  you !  How  sweet !  Oh, 
Reggie,  now  I  know  you  are  indeed  a  true  gentleman!' 

Reggie  thought  so  himself,  and  stood  six  inches  taller 
in  his  own  estimation ;  though  even  before.  Heaven 
had  granted  him  a  fairly  good  conceit  0'  himself. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


RE-ENTER     MORTIMER.  f:V 

It's  an  easy  enough  matter  getting  married  in  London, 
when  you're  carrying  a  special  license  for  the  purpose 
in  youf  pocket :  it  smooths  over  the  ingenious  obstruc- 
tions placed  by  English  law  in  the  way  of  matrimony ; 
and  Reggie,  having  once  decided  to  perform,  as  he 
thought,  this  magnanimous  action,  saw  no  reason 
why  he  should  not  perform  it  at  once,  now  the  ciisis 
had   come,    with    the    utmost    exj^edition.      So   he 


':^i»^\ 


RE-ENTER  MORTIMER 


205 


despatched  an  imaginative  telegram  to  the  office  in  the 
City  next  morning,  announcing — with  a  lordly  dis- 
regard of  historical  truth — that  he  was  prevented  by 
serious  indisposition  from  attending  to  his  work  in 
Capel  Court  that  day ;  after  which  little  excursion 
into  the  realms  of  fiction,  he  met  Florrie  by  appoint- 
ment at  the  church  door,  where,  accompanied  only  by 
Charlie  Owen,  who  undertook  the  arduous  duty  of 
giving  away  the  bride,  he  was  duly  married  at  St. 
Mary  Abbott's,  Kensington,  to  blushing  little  Florrie 
in  her  plain  white  flannel.  (It  came  in  quite  handy, 
Florrie  said,  to  be  married  in.) 

Eeggie  was  aware  that  he  was  performing  a  noble 
and  generous  act ;  and  he  looked  fully  conscious  of  it. 
As  for  Florrie,  she  thought  nobody  had  ever  been  so 
heroic  and  so  chivalrous  as  Reggie ;  and  she  felt 
prouder  that  morning,  in  her  simple  white  frock,  with 
her  stockbroker's  clerk,  than  if  she  had  married  the 
Commander-in-Chief  himself,  let  alone  a  mere  Captain 
in  a  distinguished  cavalry  regiment. 

As  soon  as  the  ceremony  was  over,  and  Charlie 
Owen  had  evaporated,  Reggie  began  to  reflect  seriously 
upon  the  lions  in  the  path — the  question  of  ways  and 
means — the  difficulties  of  supporting  a  wife  and 
family.  Stern  critics  might  suggest  that  it  was 
perhaps  a  few  minutes  late  for  taking  that  branch  of 
the  subject  into  consideration ;  but  being  now  a 
married  man,  Reggie  determined  to  face  the  duties  of 
the  situation  as  became  his  heightened  dignity.  He 
made  up  his  mind  at  once  to  look  out  for  some  better 
paid  post,  and  do  his  best  to  earn  Ian  adequate  liveli- 
hood for  Florrie.  Meanwhile,  however,  and  just  as  a 
temporary  expedient,  he  decided — to  ask  a  little  pass- 
ing assistance  from  his  sister  Kitt^. 


fWr 


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I. 


r 


1!;: 


It  was  always  so.  Master  Beggie  danced;  'twas 
l)Oor  Kitty's  place  to  pay  the  piper.  Not  that  very 
day,  of  course.  Hang  it  all,  you  know  !  a  man  may 
be  allowed  three  days  of  honeymoon  with  the  wife  of 
his  youth,  before  busying  himself  with  the  sordid 
mundane  affairs  of  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence, 
mayn't  he  ?  So  Reggie  resolutelj^  determined  to  live 
in  future  a  most  quiet  and  saving  life,  and  endeavoured 
to  distract  poor  Florrie's  mind  in  the  interim  from 
this  horrid  crash  in  her  papa's  affairs  by  spending  the 
few  remaining  pounds  he  had  still  in  pocket  from  last 
quarter's  salary  in  taking  her  round  to  all  the  best 
burlesques  then  going  on  at  the  theatres.  It  didn't  so 
much  matter  spending  these  few  stray  sovereigns  like 
that,  don't  you  see,  because  he  meant  to  put  his  case 
plainly  before  Kitty  next  week,  and  get  her  to  make 
him  a  last  final  loan  on  the  strength  of  his  new  good 
resolutions  as  security;  after  which,  he  said  to  himself 
with  the  utmost  iirmness,  he  meant  to  reform  alto- 
gether, and  strike  out  a  new  line  of  economic  action. 
Reggie  was  magnificent  at  good  resolutions.  The 
bother  of  it  was,  they  all  went  to  swell  that  nether 
pavement. 

Now,  it  so  happened  that  during  those  days  Rufus 
Mortimer,  too,  who  had  been  over  in  America  for  a 
year  and  a  day,  in  part  to  distract  himself  from  the 
effects  of  his  disappointment,  and  in  part  to  look  after 
the  ancestral  engineering  works,  had  returned  to 
London,  and  had  written  to  ask  Kathleen's  leave  to 
visit  her  once  more  at  her  lodgings  in  Kensington — a 
smaller  set,  which  she  had  occupied  since  her  mother's 
death,  and  her  consequent  reduction  of  available 
income. 

JJ^athleen  always  liked  Bufus  Mortimey.    She  kne^nr 


iPPPMf^OTP 


mmi^mimmmfi^ffimfmim^^^^ 


RE-ENTER  MORTIMER 


Wf 


.  ^it 


he  was  genuine.  She  recognised  his  goodness  of  heart 
and  his  true  American  chivalry ;  for  where  women  are 
concerned,  there  is  no  person  on  earth  more  deHcately 
chivalrous  than  your  American  gentleman.  So,  with 
sundry  misgivings,  she  allowed  liuf  us  Mortimer  to  call 
on  her  again,  though  she  hoped  he  would  not  reopen 
the  foregone  conclusion  she  had  settled  that  day  on 
the  Lido  at  Venice.  And  Bufus  Mortimer  for  his  part 
arrived  at  her  rooms  with  a  firm  determination  in  his 
own  mind  not  to  ask  Kathleen  anything  that  might 
possibly  be  embarrassing  to  her  feelings  or  sentiments* 
This  first  visit  at  least  should  be  a  purely  friendly  one ; 
it  should  be  taken  up  in  discovering,  by  the  most  casual 
indications  of  straws  on  the  wind,  how  Kathleen  now 
felt  towards  her  rejected  lover. 

But  have  you  ever  noticed  that  if  you  set  out  any- 
where, fully  determined  in  your  own  mind  to  conduct 
a  conversation  upon  certain  prearranged  lines,  you 
invariably  find  yourself  at  the  end  of  ten  minutes 
diverging  entirely  from  the  route  you  planned  out  for 
yourself,  and  saying  the  very  things  you  had  most 
earnestly  decided  wild  horses  of  the  Ukraine  should 
never  tear  from  you  ? 

It  was  so  with  Bufus  Mortimer.  Before  he  had  been 
ten  minutes  engaged  in  talk  with  Kathleen,  he  found 
conversation  had  worked  round  by  slow  degrees,  of 
itself,  to  Venice;  and  when  once  it  got  to  Venice, 
what  more  natural  on  earth  than  to  inquire  about  old 
Venetian  acquaintances?  while,  among  old  Venetian 
acquaintances,  how  possibly  omit,  without  looking 
quite  pointed,  the  name  of  the  one  who  had  been  most 
in  both  their  minds  during  that  whole  last  winter  on 
the  Fondamenta  delle  Zattere  ?  Bufus  Mortimer  felt 
there  was  no  avoiding  the  subject.   Like  the  moth  with 


va 


jim'^^im'^mifmmmmm 


mMmmmmmk 


208 


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the  candle,  he  circled  round  and  round,  and  at  last 
dashed  right  into  it. 

*  And  Willoughby  ?*  he  asked  after  a  pause,  with  a 
furtive  side-look;  'have  you  never  heard  anything 
more.  Miss  Hesslegrave,  about  Willoughby  ?' 

Kathleen's  face  flushed  rosy  red,  but  she  gave  no 
other  sign  of  her  suppressed  emotion  as  she  answered 
with  a  quiet  resignation  of  manner : 

*  No ;  I've  heard  nothing  more  of  him  since  he  left 
Venice  that  April.* 

Mortimer  leaned  forward  eagerly.  A  bright  light 
gleamed  in  his  eye. 

*  What !  he  hasn't  ever  written  to  you  ?'  he  cried. 

*  Do  you  mean  to  say  he  hasn't  written  ?* 

Kathleen  gazed  at  him  pleadingly. 

'No,  Mr.  Mortimer,'  she  answered  in  a  very  sad 
voice.  *  He — he  went  away  from  Venice  under  circum- 
stances which  I  can't  quite  explain  in  full  to  you ;  and 
from  that  day  to  this ' — her  lips  quivered  visibly — 

*  I've  never  heard  anything  more  of  him.* 

Mortimer  clutched  his  two  hands  in  one  another 
nervously. 

*  Oh,  how  wrong  of  him !'  he  cried,  with  a  timid 
glance  at  Kathleen.  *  How  unkind  I  How  cruel ! 
Why,  Miss  Hesslegrave,  I  should  never  have  expected 
such  conduct  from  Willoughby.* 

*  Nor  I,*  Kathleen  admitted  frankly,  with  a  little 
burst  of  unreserve.  It  was  such  a  relief  to  be  able  to 
talk  about  him  to  anybody  who  could  understand, 
were  it  even  but  a  little,  her  position.  *  But  then — 
oh,  Mr.  Mortimer,  you  don't  know  all.  If  you  knew 
how  unhappily  and  how  strangely  he  was  misled,  you 
wouldn't  be  harsh  in  your  judgment  of  him.*    -        ,:^, 

*By — ^your  mother?*    Mortimer  inquired,  with  a 


npPpMiipPiiP 


mmii. 


m. 


mm 


mm 


RE-ENTER  MORTIMER 


909 


flash  of  intuition— one  of  those  electric  flashes  which 
often  occur  to  men  of  the  nervous  temperament  when 
talking  with  women. 
Kathleen  bowed  her  head. 

*  Yes,  by  my  mother,*  she  answered  softly. 

There  was  a  long  deep  pause.  Then  Mortimer 
spoke  once  more. 

*  That  was  eighteen  months  ago  now,'  he  said,  in  a 
gentle  undertone. 

Kathleen  assented, 

*  Yes,  eighteen  months  ago.' 

*  And  you've  heard  nothing  more  of  him  in  any  way 
since,  directly  or  indirectly  ?' 

'  No,  nothing,'  Kathleen  answered.  Then  ohe 
paused  for  a  second,  doubtful  whether  or  not  to  utter 
the  thought  that  was  in  her.  '  Though  I've  tried 
every  way  I  knew  how,'  she  went  on  at  last  with  an 
eff'ort. 

Mortimer  turned  to  her  gently.  He  was  more  like  a 
woman  than  a  man  in  his  sympathy. 

*  You've  been  pressing  this  trouble  down  imconfessed 
in  your  own  heart,  Miss  Hesslegiave,'  he  said  with 
strange  candour,  yet  strange  gentleness  of  manner;  for 
he  came  from  one  of  those  old  Pennsylvanian  Quaker 
families  in  which  a  certain  feminine  tenderness  of 
nature  may  almost  be  reckoned  as  a  hereditary 
possession.  '  You've  been  pressing  it  down  too  long, 
till  the  repression  has  done  you  harm.  It  has  told  on 
your  health.  Why  not  confide  in  me  frankly  ?  You 
know  me  well  enough  to  know  that  if  there  ia  any  way 
in  which  it's  possible  for  me  to  help  you,  I  shall  be 
more  than  repaid  by  the  consciousness  of  having 
served  jou.* 

*You*?:e  too  good,  Mr.  Mortimer,'  Kathleen  answered. 


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the  tears  rising  fast  to  her  blinded  eyes.  *  I  haven't 
deserved  this  from  you.  But  you  don't  understand. 
You  never  could  understand.  For — well,  for  his  sake 
I  could  never  explain  this  matter  to  anybody.  You 
see,  it  would  be  a  real  breach  of  confidence.  There  are 
points  I  can't  explain,  because — they're  his  secret.' 

*  And  yet  he  has  left  you !'  Rufus  Mortimer 
exclaimed.  'While  I— oh.  Miss  Hesslegrave  I'  lia 
looked  at  her  and  held  his  peace.  He  was  more  in 
love  with  her  than  ever. 

Kathleen  rose  and  faced  him. 

*  Dear  Mr.  Mortimer,'  she  said,  with  a  faint  tremor 
in  her  voice,  '  we  are  no  longer  boy  and  girl.  Why 
shouldn't  I  speak  freely  to  you  ?  You  are  very,  very 
kind,  more  kind  than  I  deserve ;  but — ^you  mustn't 
talk  Hke  that  to  me.  I  love  him  still ;  I  mustn't  allow 
any  other  man  to  say  such  things  to  me  about  him.  I 
like  you,  oh,  ever  so  much,  for  all  your  kindness  and 
sympathy;  but  I  can't  listen  to  you  when  you  talk 
like  that  of  his  conduct.    Please,  please,  don't  do  it.' 

Mortimer  leaned  back  again  in  his  chair  and  looked 
hard  at  her. 

*  If  you  wish  it,'  he  answered,  *  I'll  speak,  or  I'll  be 
silent.  Your  will  is  law  to  me.  I  will  do  as  you  wish 
me.  But  I  didn't*  come  here  to  plead  for  mysek' to- 
day. All  that  shall  be  buried.  Only,  let  me  know 
whether  it  would  help  you  to  see  him  again.  If  it 
would,  I'll  hunt  him  out,  though  I  have  to  tramp  on 
foot  over  Europe  to  do  it.' 

*  Yes,  I  want  to  see  him  again!'  Kathleen  answered, 
*  just  once — if  no  more — ^to  explain  to  him.  He  went 
away  under  a  misapprehension  that  she  had  impressed 
upon  him.  So  unjust !  so  untrue !  And  it's  breaking 
my  heart.    I  can't  stand  it,  Mr.  Mortimei.' 


/ 


RE-ENTER  MORTIMER 


siii 


*  I  shall  find  him  out,*  Mortimer  cried,  rising ;  *  if 
he's  to  be  found,  I  shall  find  him.  In  Europe,  Asia. 
Africa,  or  America,  I  shall  find  him.  Wherever  he  is, 
I'll  track  him.  Miss  Hesslegrave,  I'll  catch  him  by 
the  neck  and  bring  him  to  you.* 

'You  can't,*  Kathleen  answered.  *He  has  gone, 
like  a  shooting- star.  He  has  left  no  trace  behind. 
But  I'm  none  the  less  grateful  to  yoa.  You  have 
always  behaved  tome  as  nobody  else  could  have  done.* 
She  paused  again  for  a  second.  *  If  it  were  not  for 
him  * she  began ;  then  she  broke  off,  faltering. 

'Thank  you,'  the  American  replied  in  a  very  low 
voice,  supplying  the  missing  words  for  himself  without 
difl&culty.  '  I  appreciate  your  kindness.  I  will  do 
my  best  to  find  him.  But  if  he  never  turns  up  again 
— if  he  has  disappeared  for  ever — oh,  Miss  Hessle- 
grave, is  there  no  chance — no  hope  for  any  other 
man?' 

Kathleen  gazed  at  him  fixedly. 

'  No,  no  hope,'  she  answered  with  a  visible  effort. 
'  Mr.  Mortimer,  I  like  you ;  I  respect  you  ever  so  much. 
But  I  love  Arnold  Willoughby.  I  could  never  give 
my  heart  to  any  man  but  him.  And  unless  i  gave 
my  heart * 

'  You  are  right,*  Mortimer  broke  in.  '  There  we 
two  are  at  one.  I  care  for  nothing  else.  It  is  your 
heart  I  would  ask  for.' 

Trembling,  he  rose  to  go.  But  he  held  her  hand 
long. 

*  And  remember,'  he  said  with  a  lump  in  his  throat, 
*  if  at  any  time  you  see  reason  to  change  your  mind, 
I  too  have  loved  one  woman  too  well  in  my  time  ever 
to  love  any  other.  I  am  yours,  and  yours  only.  One 
motion  of  your  hand,  and  be  sure  I  shall  understand 


\.-i 


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213 


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I 


it !  He  may  die  out  of  your  life.  You  can't  die  out 
of  mine.  I  shall  always  hope  on,  though  no  good 
come  of  hoping.* 

He  grasped  her  hand  hard ;  Kathleen  allowed  him 
to  grasp  it.  He  stooped  down  and  imprinted  one  kiss 
on  the  soft  palm  ;  she  did  not  resent  the  action.  She 
felt  too  well  in  what  spirit  he  did  it  to  feel  called  upon 
to  prevent  him.  She  had  pity  for  his  despair.  Then 
he  hurried  down  the  stairs.  His  heart  was  too  full 
for  him  to  remain  any  longer.  He  could  hardly  hold 
back  his  tears,  so  deeply  was  he  agitated. 

On  the  doorstep  he  knocked  up  by  accident  against 
Beggie.  The  head  of  the  house  stopped  the  stranger 
quite  eagerly.  . 

*  Hullo,*  he  exclaimed  in  some  surprise;  'are  you 
back  again  in  England  ?* 

*  Yes,  so  it  seems,*  the  American  replied,  trying  to 
calm  himself  outwardly.     *  I  got  back  on  Tuesday.* 

*Last  Tuesday  as  ever  was?'  Reggie  cried.    . 

*  Yes,  just  BO :  last  Tuesday.' 

*  And  lost  no  time  in  hunting  Kitty'  up !'  Reggie 
went  on,  with  a  broad  smile.  This  was  really  most 
promising.  He  knew  the  American,  though  an  artist 
by  choice,  was  reputed  one  of  the  richest  business  men 
in  Philadelphia.  It  looked  extremely  healthy  that  he 
should  have  been  in  such  a  hurry  to  hunt  up  Kathleen. 

*  My  first  visit  was  to  Miss  Hesslegrave,*  Mortimer 
answered  with  truth,  feeling  on  his  side  the  immense 
importance  of  conciliating  Kathleen's  only  brother  and 
sole  surviving  relation. 

Reggie  drew  a  long  breath.  Could  anything  have 
been  more  opportune?  How  pat  comes  fate!  The 
moment  had  just  arrived  when  he  stood  in  sorest  need 
of  a  wealthy  brother-in-law ;  and  now,  in  the  nick  of 


;y 


RE-ENTER  MORTIMER 


213 


time,  on  the  very  crest  of  opportunity,  here  was  chance 
itself  throwing  the  pick  of  wealthy  brothers-in-law 
right  in  his  path,  as  it  were,  like  a  crooked  sixpence : 
for,  though  Kufus  Mortimer  tried  to  look  and  speak  as 
unconcernedly  as  he  could  about  his  visit  to  Kitty, 
there  was  something  in  his  voice  and  manner  which 
showed  Eeggie  quite  clearly  the  nature  of  his  errand 
at  Kensington  that  morning.  Eeggie  had  suspected 
as  much,  indeed,  since  the  first  summer  Mortimer 
spent  in  his  own  hired  house  in  London ;  but  it  was 
plain  as  the  sun  in  the  sky  to  him  that  moment  what 
he  meant;  if  Kathleen  chose  she  could  marry  the 
millionaire,  and  thereby  confer  on  her  loving  brother 
the  inestimable  boon  of  a  moneyed  relation. 

*I'm  proud  to  hear  it,'  Eeggie  responded  with 
warmth.  *  She's  a  good  girl,  Kitty;  and  she's  worth 
a  fellow's  calling  upon.  I  like  her  myself.  She's  the 
very  best  sister  any  fellow  ever  hit  upon.'  Which  was 
perfectly  true,  much  more  so,  indeed,  than  Mr.  Eeggie 
himself  ever  fully  realized. 

So  he  mounted  the  stairs  in  a  bland  good-humour, 
the  unpleasantness  of  having  to  confess  his  marriage 
to  Kathleen  being  now  much  mitigated  by  the  con- 
soling consciousness  that,  if  Kathleen  chose,  she  could 
probably  annex  the  richest  American  that  moment  in 
London.  Most  characteristically,  too,  Eeggie  thought 
of  it  all  entirely  from  that  one  point  of  view ;  it  wasn't 
really  a  question  of  a  husband  for  Kitty,  but  of  an 
eligible  brother-in-law  for  Eeginald  Hesslegrave. 


-  ..y-'-'^ 


214 


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CHAPTER  XX. 


A    FAMILY    COUNCIL. 


Beogie  entered  the  room  in  the  hest  of  high  spirits. 
They  were  confirmed  by  observing  that  Kitty  had  tears 
in  her  eyes — an  excellent  sign :  she  had  evidcuay  been 
crying.  Hence  Mr.  Beggie  acutely  concluded  that 
Mortimer  must  have  proposed  to  her,  and  been  re- 
fused for  the  moment,  though  not,  of  course,  neces- 
sarily in  a  definitive  fashion.  Beggie  was  dimly 
aware,  to  be  sure,  as  a  brother  may  be,  that  there  was 
Somebody  at  Venice ;  and  he  had  drawn  for  himself 
the  vague  and  formless  inference  that  this  Somebody, 
as  he  mentally  put  it  in  his  own  dialect,  had  failed  to 
come  up  to  the  scratch  with  Kitty.  Hence  these 
weepings.  But,  then,  girls  are  so  stupid !  If  the 
fellow  at  Venice  couldn't  be  brought  to  propose,  why, 
it  was  clearly  Kitty's  duty,  for  her  family's  sake,  to 
accept  at  once  so  eligible  an  offer  as  Bufus  Mortimer's, 
especially  when  a  brother  could  say,  with  Beggie, 
*La  famille,  c'est  moi!'  Then  her  proper  course 
shone  forth  with  peculiar  obviousness. 

So  Beggie  entered  his  sister's  room  in  the  familiar 
fraternal  mood  of  the  man  who  isn't  going  to  put  up 
wi*h  any  feminine  nonsense. 

Kathleen  greeted  him  rather  coolly.  In  point  of 
fact,  having  just  been  deeply  stirred,  she  was  in  no 
mood  at  the  moment  for  receiving  Beggie.  She  kept 
her  eyes  as  much  averted  from  her  brother  as  possible, 
and  strove  to  prevent  them  from  catching  Beggie' s  at 
awkward  angles.  Still,  Beggie  could  see  very  well 
she  had  been  crying,  and  could  observe  from  her 


%;^' 


A  FAMILY  COUNCIL 


ai| 


■(■i^- 


manner  that  she  was  a  good  deal  agitated.  That  was 
all  most  satisfactory.  He  dropped  into  an  easy-chair 
with  a  careless  fraternal  air ;  and  thinking  it  best  to 
blurt  the  whole  thing  out  at  once  without  needless 
prologue,  he  looked  across  at  her  narrowly  as  he 
uttered  the  enigmatical  words : 

*  Well,  Kitty,  I've  come  to  receive  your  congratula- 
tions.* 

'Congratulations?'  Kathleen  responded,  taken  aback. 
*  On  what,  my  dear  boy  ?  Have  they  raised  your 
salary  ?' 

*  Not  they !'  Eeggie  answered,  smiling.  *  Catch  'em 
at  it !  That's  all !  They  never  appreciate  modest 
merit.  Besides,  I  don't  take  mujh  stock  in  stock- 
broking.  The  game  ain't  worth  it,  except,  of  course, - 
for  principals.  No,  Kitsy,  it  isn't  that.  It's  some- 
thing much  more  important.*  He  caressed  his 
moustache.  *  Can't  you  guess,*  he  said,  *  what  a 
man*s  mobi}  likely  to  ask  his  sister  to  congratulate 
him  on?* 

^  Kathleen's  fears  rose  high  at  once.  When  Eeggie 
wanted  money,  he  addressed  her  as  Kitty :  but  when 
it  got  to  Kitsy,  a  most  unusual  diminutive  of  extreme 
affection,  she  felt  sure  he  must  mean  to  come  down 
upon  her  for  absolutely  unprecedented  advances. 

*  You're  not  engaged,  are  you,  Eeggie  ?'  she  faltered 
out  in  a  feeble  voice.  *  For  if  you  are,  I'm  sure  it's  very 
wrong  indeed  of  you.  You  can't  keep  yourself,  so 
you've  surely  no  right  to  think  of  burdening  me  with 

someone  else  also.' 

■ .  *  I- 

Eeggie's  lip  curled  slightly. 

*  What  a  girl  you  are !'  he  cried  with  a  faint  dash  of 
disdain.  *  Taking  such  a  low  monetary  point  of  view 
about  everything  i    One  would  think  getting  married 


m 


-■■% 


2l6 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


was  a  mere  matter  of  £  s.  d.  Not  a  touch  of  senti- 
ment in  it.  No,  Kitsy,  it  isn't  an  engagement  I  want 
you  to  congratulate  me  on ;  it's  something  a  vast  deal 
more  interesting  and  important.'  Reggie  drew  him- 
self up  to  his  utmost  height  in  his  chair  as  he  sat. 
*  The  fact  is,  Kitty,  I'm  already  married.' 

*  Married !'  Kathleen  exclaimed  with  a  sudden  hurst 
of  alarm.  *  Oh,  Reggie,  what  do  you  mean  ?  Who  is 
it  ?  and  when  did  you  marry  her  ?' 

*  Flcrrie  Clarke,'  Reggie  answered,  producing  her 
photograph  with  just  pride  from  his  pocket — and, 
indeed,  Florrie  was  a  personable  little  body  enough, 
whom  anybody  might  be  proud  of  from  the  point  of 
vinw  of  external  appearance.  *  Who  else  could  it  be  ? 
We  were  married  on  Wednesday.* 

Kathleen  gazed  at  the  portrait  for  a  moment  in 
silence.    Her  heart  misgave  her. 

*  Well,  she  looks  a  nice  little  thing,'  she  said  after 
an  ominous  pause ;  '  and  I  should  think  a  good  girl, 
too :  she's  certainly  pretty.  But  why  didn't  you  tell 
me  before,  Reggie,  and  introduce  your  bride  to  me  ?' 

*  Ore's  people  are  so  unreasonable,'  Reggie  answered, 
with  a  hasty  gesture.  *  I  don't  blame  it  on  you,  Kitsy ; 
I  know  you  can't  help  it ;  it  belongs  to  the  race :  it's 
only  the  fixed  habit  of  the  vertebrate  animals  one  calls 
one's  people.' 

*  Well,  but  she's  such  a  good  match  from  one  point 
of  view,'  Kathleen  went  on,  undoubtedly  relieved  to 
find  Reggie  had  at  least  chosen  a  wife  for  himself  from 
a  well-to-do  family ;  for  the  name  and  the  fame  of 
Spider  Clarke  had  already  reached  her  ears — as, 
indeed,  whose  had  they  not?  *Her  people  may  iiot 
be  very  desirable  acquaintances,  so  far  as  culture  and 
manners  go — ^I  remember  dear  mother  would  never 


'1  ■; 


•>J' 


'i^'^ 


'iM. 


A  FA^fILY  COUNCIL 


317 


let  you  bring  them  to  her  rooms  while  she  lived — but 
at  least  they're  wealthy,  and  that's  always  something. 
It  will  relieve  you  from  responsibility.  How  on  earth 
did  you  get  Mr.  Clarke  to  consent  to  the  marriage  ?' 

*  We  didn't  get  him,'  Eeggie  answered  with  careless 
ease.  *  We  took  the  liberty,  in  point  of  fact,  to  dis- 
pense with  asking  him.  Charlie  Owen  gave  her 
away ;  and  extremely  paternal  Charlie  looked,  I  can 
tell  you,  as  he  stood  up  on  his  hind-legs  in  Kensington 
Church  and  did  it.' 

'But  you  haven't  obtained  Mr.  Clarke's  consent!* 
Kathleen  cried,  taken  aback,  and  once  more  alarmed. 
*  Well,  how  can  you  tell,  then,  that  he'll  at  all  approve 
of  it?  Perha.ps  he'll  refuse  to  do  anything  to  help 
you.' 

*  Com.insrcial  again !'  lieggie  responded  with  an 
aggrieved  air  as  of  the  poetical  sentimentalist.  '  In- 
grainedly  commercial !  You  talk  like  a  greengrocer. 
You  can't  thinl:  of  anything  but  the  money  aspect  of 
the  question.  I  call  it  sordid.  Here's  your  brother, 
Kitsy — ^your  own  and  only  brother — comes  to  you  with 
his  full  heart  to  announce  to  you  in  his  joy  that  he's 
married  to  the  sweetest,  dearest,  prettiest,  cleverest, 
sauciest,  most  delicious  little  girl  in  all  England  ;  and 
what  do  you  do  ?  rush  up  to  him,  and  kiss  him,  and 
rejoice  with  him,  and  congratulate  him?  Oh  dear 
no !  Not  a  bit  of  it !  That's  not  your  way.  You 
begin  by  inquiring  straight  off  what  the  lady's  worth, 
and  debating  whether  or  not  her  papa  will  be  inclined 
to  fork  out  the  dibs  for  her.  However,  there's  a  cure 
for  all  that,  I'm  jolly  glad  to  say.  Kitty,  you're 
behind  the  times.  You  don't  read  the  papers.  You 
neglect  the  Uterature  and  the  journalism  of  your 
country.' 


2l8 


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'  What  do  you  mean  ?'•  Kathleen  cried,  trembling, 
and  suspecting  now  some  nameless  evil.  *  It  hasn't 
been  put  in  the  papers  ?  Oh,  Reggie,  don't  say  so ! 
You  haven't  done  anything  dreadful  and  impossible, 
have  you  ?.' 

*  Me  ?  Dear  me,  no,  my  dear  child,*  Beggie  nn- 
swered  airily.  'I'm  a  model,  myself,  of  all  the 
domestic  virtues.  But  the  reason  we  didn't  ask  old 
Clarke's  consent,  my  respected  father-in-law's,  is 
simply  and  solely  this — that  the  respected  father-in-law 
in  question  happens  to  be  this  moment  lying  in  gaol, 
awaiting  his  trial  on  a  charge  of  fraud  of  the  first 
magnitude.     That  is  all,  my  dear  Kitty.' 

*  Fraud  !'  Kathleen  exclaimed,  drawing  back.  *  Oh, 
Reggie,  you  don't  mean  it.  I  thought  he  was  so  rich. 
What  could  he  want  to  commit  fraud  for  ?' 

*  How  do  people  get  rich,  I  should  like  to  know,  if 
they  don't  begin  by  being  fraudulent?'  Reggie  re- 
sponded with  easy-going  cynicism.  'But  he  ain't 
rich  ;  that's  just  it.  Old  Clarke's  gone  busted.  He's 
no  more  good,  any  way.  He's  smashed  eternally. 
Come  a  regular  cropper,  the  Spider  has.  Precious 
awkward  for  poor  Florrie  !' 

*  But  perhaps  he's  innocent,'  Kathleen  cried,  clutch- 
ing at  a  last  straw.  *  We  should  always  think  every- 
body innocent,  dear  mother  used  to  say,  till  they're 
proved  to  be  guilty.* 

*  Perhaps  you're  innocent,*  Reggie  echoed  in  a  tone 
of  half  disgust,  half  amusement.  *  Very  innocent  in- 
deed. As  innocent  as  they  make  *em.  But  it  won't 
do,  Kitsy.  It  isn't  good  enough.  Old  Clarke's 
smashed  up.  He's  gone  a  juicy  one.  Smashed  him- 
self, they  say,  over  the  Axmijister  estate.  But  any- 
how, he's  smashed ;  not  a  piece  of  him  left  whole. 


^^. 


-^ 


.1  .^«J 


^ 


$ 


k 


A  FAMILY  COUNCIL 


219 


Might  havJ  been  better,  don't  you  know,  if  he  could 
have  managed  to  clear  out  a  good  month  ago  to  Buenos 
Ayres ;  but  as  it  is,  not  a  penny ;  not  a  dot ;  not  a 
stiver.  Twenty  years  is  what  he'll  get.  Florrie's 
awfully  cut  up  about  it.' 

*  And  you've  married  her  all  the  same  ?*  Kathleen 
cried,  clasping  her  hands,  not  without  a  certain  in- 
ternal tinge  of  pride,  after  all,  that  Beggie  should  at 
least  have  behaved  like  a  gentleman. 

Beggie  drew  himself  up  once  more,  and  looked 
important.  He  stroked  his  moustache  still  more 
fondly  than  ever.  Consciousness  of  rectitude  shone 
from  every  line  in  his  sleek  round  face. 

*  Why,  of  course  I  have,'  he  answered.  *  What  else 
could  a  fellow  i, )?  I  hope  I'm  a  gentleman.  I  went 
to  her  at  Butland  Gate — telegram  down  to  the  City — 
*'  Come  at  once — deepest  distress — must  see  you. — 
Florrib."  And  there  I  found  the  poor  dear  child  in 
an  agony  of  misery,  crying  and  tearing  her  hair,  which 
is  short  and  black  and  one  of  her  chief  attractions. 
Seems  she  was  just  thrown  overboard  by  a  wretch  of 
a  cavalry  man,  whom  her  father  and  mother  had 
compelled  her  to  accept  against  her  will  instead  of 
me.  "  Florrie,"  said  I,  "  forget  him,  and  come  back 
to  the  arms  of  yoiir  one  true  lover."  She  flew  to  me 
like  a  bird,  and  nestled  on  my  shoulder.  "  I'd  marry 
you,"  said  I,  "  if  your  father  was  ten  thousand  times 
a  fraudulent  bankrupt."  And  marry  her  I  just  did. 
So  there's  the  long  and  the  short  of  it.' 

*You  acted  quite  right,'  Kathleen  said,  unable  to 
resist  a  woman's  natural  approbation  for  the  man  who 
follows  the  impulse  of  his  better  nature. 

Beggid  seized  his  one  chance.  This  was  the  thin 
end  of  the  wedge.  .    „ 


r^fmT 


220 


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te:^ 


*  So  I  think,'  he  said  complacently.  *  And  now  the 
question  is,  how  the  dickens  am  I  to  pull  through? 
I  mean,  what's  to  be  done  about  ways  and  means  ? 
For  of  course,  as  you  justly  say,  if  I  can't  support 
myself,  far  less  can  I  support  myself  and  Florrie  also.* 

*  But  you  should  have  thought  of  that  beforehand,* 
Kathleen  put  in,  drawing  back. 

It  began  to  strike  her  that,  after  all,  there  was 
nothing  so  self-devoted  in  marrying  a  girl  at  a  pine' 
if  you  propose  to  make  your  sister  bear  the  burden  ,. 
supporting  her. 

Thereupon  they  fell  at  once  into  committee  of  ways 
and  means,  relieved  now  and  again  by  frequent  declara- 
tions on  Beggie's  part  that  a  sweeter,  dearer,  more 
bewitching  girl  than  Florrie  didn't  really  exist  on  the 
entire  land-surface  of  this  oblate  spheroid. 

Kathleen  was  glad  he  was  so  well  suited  with  Spider 
Clarke's  daughter,  though  she  doubted  the  stock ;  and 
then,  like  a  good  woman  that  she  was,  reproached  her- 
self bitterly  in  her  own  mind  for  doubting  it.  But  the 
longer  they  stuck  at  it,  the  less  they  seemed  to  arrive 
at  any  fixed  decision.  All  Beggie  could  assert  was  his 
own  absolute  incapacity  to  earn  a  penny  more  than  he 
was  at  present  earning,  coupled  with  the  pleasing 
information  that  his  exchequer  was  just  now  in  its 
normally  flaccid  and  depleted  condition,  and  that  his 
bills  were  (as  always)  in  excess  of  his  expectations. 
As  for  the  Clarkes,  Beggie  observed  with  a  complacent 
smile,  they  were  simply  stone-broke;  a  most  jammy 
affair ;  not  a  penny  need  be  looked  for  from  that 
direction.  The  old  man  had  spent  his  tin  as  fast  as 
he  made  it,  and  faster ;  and  now  the  crash  had  come, 
there  were  liabilities  considerably  in  excess  of  the 
assets^a  piece  of  information  the  technical  sound  of 


v< 


A  FAMILY  COUNCIL 


221 


"''.'i-j., 


which  pleased  Reggie  so  immensely  that  he  repeated 
it  over  several  times  in  various  contexts  for  his  sister's 
edification. 

At  last,  however,  he  ventured  bit  by  bit  upon  a 
tentative  suggestion. 

*  There's  only  one  way  out  of  it,'  he  said,  glancing  ' 
sideways  at  Kathleen,  *  and  that  lies  entirely  with  you. 
If  my  creditors  once  learn  I've  got  married  without 
prospects,  and  Lo  the  Spider's  daughter,  why,  they'll 
simply  drop  down  on  me.  Scrunch,  scrunch,  they'll 
crush  me.  They'll  press  me  for  payment  till  I'm  half 
mad  with  worry;  and  then  I  shall  go  and  do  one  of  two 
things — Waterloo  Bridge  or  the  Bankruptcy  Court.' 

*  Oh,  Reggie,'  Kathleen  cried,  *  not  Waterloo  Bridge ! 
How  cruel !  how  wicked  of  you  I' 

Reggie  saw  his  cue  at  once.  That  was  the  way, 
then,  to  work  it.  He  enlarged  forthwith  upon  the 
nothingness  and  hoUowness  of  this  present  life,  and  the 
ease  of  ending  it,  as  the  poet  observes,  with  a  bare 
bodkin.  For  Florrie's  sake,  indeed,  he  could  have 
wished  it  might  be  otherwise;  but  if  no  work  were 
forthcoming,  it  would  be  easier  for  Florrie  to  starve 
alone  than  to  starve  in  company.  He  dwelt  upon 
these  themes  till  he  had  thoroughly  succeeded  in 
frightening  poor  Kathleen.  Then  he  turned  upon  her 
once  more. 

*And  if  you  chose,*  he  cried  bitterly,  *you  could 
make  it  all  right  for  me  in  a  single  minute.' 

*  How  so  ?'  Kathleen  asked,  trembling. 

*  Why,  how  about  Mortimer  ?*  Reggie  cried,  spring- 
ing a  mine  upon  her. 

'  Mortimer  ?'  Kathleen  repeated.  *  How  about  Mr. 
Mortimer  ?  Why,  what  on  earth  has  he  to  do  with 
the  matter,  Reggie  ?*  ^^        ^ 


ir 


■ii 


222 


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li/. 


m-: 


*0h,  you  needn't  look  such  a  blessed  innocent,' 
Eeggie  answered,  smiling.  *  I  know  all  about  Mor- 
timer. He'd  propose  to  you  like  a  shot,  if  only  you'd 
have  him.  And  for  your  family's  sake,  I  say,  it's  your 
duty  to  have  him.  You  know  he  would,  as  well  as  I 
do.     So  that's  about  the  size  of  it.' 

*  Oh,  Eeggie,  how  can  you  ?'  Kathleen  cried,  the 
tears  rising  to  her  eyes.     *  I  could  never  marry  him.' 

*  That's  just  as  you  like,'  Eeggie  answered  calmly. 
*  I  don't  want  to  bias  you.  If  you  prefer  me  to  go 
over  Waterloo  Bridge,  I'm  sure  I've  no  objection.  I 
don't  desire  to  be  selfish,  like  some  other  people,  and 
insist  on  having  my  ov  n  way,  no  matter  who  suffers 
for  it.  It's  a  very  ea&y  thing  to  take  a  header  over 
the  bridge  in  this  nice  warm  weather.  Only,  for  poor 
Florrie's  sake,  I  confess  I  should  have  preferred  to 
fight  it  out  in  this  world  a  little  longer.' 

*But  I'm  not  selfish,'  Kathleen  cried,  hit  on  her 
tenderest  point.  'Oh,  Eeggie,  don't  say  you  think 
me  selfish.  I'd  do  anything  to  serve  you,  dear,  except 
only  that.  But  that  one  thing  I  can't.  Oh,  Eeggie, 
don't  ask  it  of  me.' 

She  spoke  with  so  much  earnestness  that  Eeggie 
saw  he  had  a  chance  of  gaining  his  point  if  he  went 
on  with  it  resolutely.  So  ho  answered  in  a  sullen 
voice : 

*  Oh  yes,  of  course ;  you'd  do  anything  on  earth 
except  the  one  thing  that's  any  use  to  try.  That's 
always  the  way  with  people.  They'd  kill  themselves 
to  help  you  ;  but  they  won't  stretch  out  a  hand  in  the 
only  direction  possible.  You'd  sooner  see  your  brother 
starve,  or  drive  him  to  suicide,  than  make  an  effort  to 
help  him  by  marrying  Eufus  Mortimer.* 

*  Eeggie,'  Kathleen  exclaimed,  driven  to  bay,  *  you 


'■n 


A  FAMILY  COUNCIL 


223 


don't  understand.  I  love  somebody  else ;  that's  why 
I  can't  marry  him.' 

*  So  I  gathered/  Eeggie  answered  with  perfect  cool- 
ness. '  And  the  somebody  else  won't  come  up  to  the 
scratch ;  so  you  may  as  well  regard  him  as  a  vanish- 
ing factor,  as  we  say  in  the  City.  He's  out  of  the 
running.  Well,  then  accept  it.  "What's  the  matter 
with  Kufus  Mortimer  ?  that's  what  I  want  to  know. 
He's  rich  ;  he's  a  gentleman ;  he's  good-lookmg ;  he's 
artistic;  he's  everything  else  on  earth  any  woman 
could  want,  except — well,  except  that  he's  not  the 
other  fellow.  Are  you  going  to  let  your  brother  go 
and  die  before  your  eyes,  just  because  you  won't  take 
a  man  any  girl  but  you  would  be  delighted  to  have  a 
chance  of  ?' 

*  Oh,  Eeggie,  how  dreadful  of  you !'  Kathleen  cried. 

*  I  can't  bear  to  hear  y  >u  speak  of  it  all  as  if  it  were  a 
mere  matter  of  business  arrangement.  I  love  the  other 
man ;  I  don't  love  Mr.  Mortimer.' 

*  He's  a  very  good  fellow,'  Eeggie  answered,  hand 
on  lip  once  more.  *  If  only  you  made  up  your  mind 
to  it,  you'd  soon  learn  to  like  him.' 

*I  like  him  already,'  Kathleen  admitted  frankly. 

*  He's  a  very  nice  fellow ;  a  dear  good  fellow ;  so  kind, 
BO  generous,  so  chivalrous,  so  unselfish.' 

*  Well,  there  2'ou  are,'  Eeggie  replied,  folding  his 
hands  resignedly.  *  If  you  feel  like  that  towards  him 
already,  why,  of  course,  if  you  got  engaged,  you'd  very 
goon  be  in  love  with  him.' 

^  I  could  never  be  out  of  love  with  the  other,'  Kath- 
leen faltered,  hslf  wavering. 

'That's  quite  unimportant,'  Eeggie  answered  with 
equal  frankness.  '  As  long  as  you  feel  you  can  marry 
Mortimer,  I'd  leave  the  other  man  to  stand  hiseveA 


■tt- 


-■9!m 


mm^^!^swwi^!W^ 


224 


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i  I'' 


chance,  like  Jamie  in  the  poein.  You  wouldn't  be  the 
first  woman — nor  the  last  by  a  long  chalk — who  has 
married  her  second  best,  and  jogged  along  very  well 
with  him.' 

*  I'm  afraid  that's  true,'  Kathleen  responded,  sighing. 
And  indeed  it  was.     'Tis  the  tragedy  of  our  century. 

*  Well,  I'm  going  soon,'  Reggie  observed,  starting 
up  with  a  theatrical  air.  *  And  if  you  should  happen 
to  hear  the  newsboys  calling  out  to-morrow  morning, 
"  Shockin'  Suicide  of  a  Gentleman  from  Waterloo 
Bridge !"  don't  let  it  give  you  a  turn.  I'm  not  worth 
bothering  about.'  v 

'Reggie,'  Kathleen  cried,  clinging  to  him,  *you 
mustn't  go  like  that.  I  am  afraid  to  let  you  go.  Ypu 
make  me  so  frightened.  Promise  me  you'll  do  nothing 
silly  till  you've  seen  me  again.  If  you  will,  I'll  think 
it  over,  and  try  what  I  can  to  help  you.  But  you 
must  promise  me  faithfully.  Oh,  Reggie,  do  promise 
me.' 

*I  don't  know  whether  I  can,'  Reggie  responded 
dubiously. 

*  You  must,'  Kathleen  exclaimed.  *  Oh,  Reggie,  you 
frighten  me.  Do  promise  me  you  won't,  and  I'll  try 
to  think  it  over.' 

'Well,  I'll  wait  till  to-morrow,  and  then  I'll  see 
you  again,'  Reggie  answered  doggedly.  *  But,  mind,  I 
only  say  till  I  see  you  to-morrow.* 

Kathleen  trembled  all  over. 

*  Very  well,  dear,'  she  answered.  He  was  her  only 
brother,  and  with  that  wonderful  tie  of  blood  which 
binds  us  all  to  the  foolishest  or  worst  of  mankind,  she 
was  very,  very  fond  of  him. 

Reggie  turned  from  the  threshold  wit£i  his  hand  on 
the  door-plate. 


ppw?*'. 


^«SJ^ 


tus'M'fr ' 


"■?f?!^^^w^i^:f|i!fi|wgipe^ 


A  FAMILY  COUNCIL 


m 


'  Oh,  by  the  way,'  he  said  casually,  *  you  don't 
happen  to  have  such  a  thmg  as  a  couple  of  sovereigns 
you  could  lend  me,  just  for  Florrie's  immediate  neces- 
sities ;  bread  and  cheese,  and  so  forth ;  till  we've 
decided  this  questior,  and  I  know  whether  I'm  to  go 
over  the  bridge  or  not,  and  whether  her  address  in 
future  is  to  be  Kensington  Workhouse  ?' 

Kathleen  pulled  out  her  scanty  purse,  now  entirely 
replenished  by  her  own  earnings  as  an  artist,  and  drew 
from  it  two  sovereigns,  vzhich  phe  handed  bim  regret- 
fully. She  had  made  up  her  mind  a  hundred  times 
over  already  she  would  never  be  silly  enough  to  lend 
him  money  again;  and  here,  for  the  hundred  and 
first  time,  she  found  herself  doing  it, 

*  Thanks,'  Eeggie  said  with  careless  ease,  dropping 
them  into  his  waistcoat  pocket,  as  though  money  were 
nothing  to  him.  *  Well,  good-e/ening,  Kitsy.  Think 
it  over  by  yourself;  and  don't  let  your  sentimental 
fancy  drive,  your  brother  to  despair ;  that's  all  I  beg 
of  you.' 

After  which,  being  worn  out  with  this  painful  inter- 
view, and  feeling  the  need  of  rest  and  amusement,  he 
stopped  at'  the  box  office  of  the  Court  Theatre  on  his 
way  down  town,  and  engaged  two  stalls  forjhat  night 
for  himself  and  Florrie. 


CHAPTEI^  XXI. 

THE  WISE  WOMAN.  '  " 

As  soon  as  Eeggie  was  gone,  poor  Kathleen  delivered 
herself  over  to  pure  unadulterated  searchings  of  spirit. 
The  wprld,  indeed,  is  pretty  equally  divided  betweeA 


|P!p|Pipippjl|iJI!pil*?|K'^;i^f^_,  ■ , 


226 


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people  who  have  no  scruples  of  conscience  at  all,  and 
people  who  allow  their  scruples  of  conscience  to  run 
away  with  them.  Now,  Kathleen  Hesslegrave  be- 
longed to  the  latter  unfortunate  self-torturing  class. 
She  had  terrible  fears  of  her  own  as  to  what  she 
should  do  about  Eeggie.  Of  course,  no  outsider  who 
knew  Mr.  Reginald's  character  as  well  as  she  did 
would  ever  for  a  moment  have  been  silly  enough  to 
believe  he  really  contemplated  suicide ;  he  was  far  too 
much  of  a  physical  and  moral  coward  ever  to  dream 
of  jumping  over  Waterloo  Bridge ;  for  though  it  may 
be  cowardly  in  one  sense  to  run  away  from  the  respon- 
sibilities and  difficulties  of  life,  yet  none  the  lesB  it  is 
often  still  deeper  cowardice  that  prevents  many  people 
from  having  recourse  to  that  cowardly  refuge.  To 
Eathleen,  however,  the  danger  envisaged  itself  as  a 
real  and  menacing  one.  When  it  comes  to  one's  own 
relations,  one  is  more  credulous  in  these  matters,  and 
more  timorous  of  giving  the  slightest  handle  for 
offence.  The  threat  of  suicide  is  the  easiest  form  of 
thumbscrew  that  a  selfish,  unscrupulous,  and  weak- 
minded  lad  can  apply  to  the  moral  feelings  of  his 
relations. 

Moreover,  Eeggie  had  happened  upon  a  fortunate 
moment.  When  he  called  that  day,  Kathleen  had 
just  been  deeply  impressed  by  Eufus  Mortimer's  good- 
ness and  generosity ;  indeed,  she  had  said  to  herself, 
as  Eufus  Mortimer  left,  the  room :  *  If  only  I  had 
never  met  Arnold  Willoughby,  I  really  believe  I  could 
have  loved  that  man  dearly.*  So  when  Eeggie  began 
to  throw  out  his  dark  hints  of  approaching  suicidS) 
Kathleen  seriously  debated  in  her  own  mind  whether 
or  not  it  was  her  duty  to  save  him  from  such  a  fate  by 
marrying  the  paw  who  had  shown  himself  so  truly 


-''{JS^tiM^^ 


li|^itpii,«"<i|||p||PJ^!p|liJl}i( 


»?5P«IP 


TFTS' 


~    ■•■■  *  ■■       ---™  vV-  .^^.1 


•      THE  WISE  WOMAN 


227 


and  disinterestedly  devoted  to  her.  All  that  night, 
she  lay  awake  and  reasoned  with  herself  wearily. 
Reggie  wasn't  worth  all  the  trouble  she  bestowed  upon 
him.  Early  next  morning  she  rose,  and  wrote  him  in 
haste  half  a  dozen  long  letters,  one  after  the  other,  all 
of  which  she  tore  up  as  soon  as  she  had  finished 
them.  It  is  so  hard  to  know  what  to  do  in  such  diffi- 
cult circumstances.  Kathleen  wondered  and  waited 
and  argued  with  her  own  heart,  and  worried  her  poor 
conscience  with  interminable  questions. 

After  breakfast,  a  light  burst  upon  her.  Why  not 
go  and  talk  the  whole  matter  over  with  Mrs.  Irving  ? 
Now,  Mrs.  Irving  was  a  friend  whose  acquaintance  she 
had  made  some  years  before  on  the  quays  at  Venice ; 
a  painter  like  herself,  older,  and  cleverer,  and  a  great 
deal  more  successful.  Her  face  was  beautiful,  Kath- 
leen always  thought,  -vith  the  beauty  of  holiness ;  a 
chastened  and  saddened  face,  with  marks  of  its  past 
stamped  deep  upon  its  features.  Her  silvery  hair  was 
prematurely  gray ;  but  the  light  in  her  eye  showed 
her  younger  by  a  decade  than  one  might  otherwise 
have  judged  her.  It  was  a  happy  inspiration  on 
Kathleen's  part  to  go  to  her ;  for  when  a  girl  is  in 
doubt,  she  can  seldom  do  better  than  take  the  advice 
o!  some  older  woman  in  whom  she  has  confidence,  and 
who  can  look  at  the  matter  at  issue  irom  the  im- 
personal standpoint.  'Tis  that  ver;/  impersonality 
that  is  so  important  an  element  in  all  these  questions ; 
you  get  rid  of  the  constant  disturbing  factor  of  your 
own  emotions. 

Now,  a  certain  halo  of  mystery  always  surrounded 
Mrs.  Irving.  Who  Mr.  Irving  was,  or  whether,  indeed, 
there  was  still  or  was  not  a  Mr.  Irving  at  all,  Kathleen 
never  knew.    Whenever  their  talk  had  approached 


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thnt  topic,  Kathleen  noticed  that  her  friend  glided 
carefully  over  che  thin  ice  in  the  oppociite  direction, 
and  distracted  the  conversation  by  imperceptible 
degrees  from  Mr.  Irving's  neighbourhood.  Neverthcr 
lesg,  there  had  be^n  always  some  suxuilse  and  gossip 
about  the  hypothetical  husband  at  Venetian  tea-tables; 
for  you  may  take  it  as  an  invariable  rule  in  life,  that 
"whenever  a  woman,  no  matier  how  innocently,  lives 
apart  from  her  husband,  sh3  will  always  abide  under 
the  faint  shadow  of  a  social  cloud ;  let  it  be  twenty 
times  his  fault,  and  twenty  times  her  misfortune,  yet 
it  is  she,  and  not  he,  who  will  have  to  pay  the  price 
for  it.  So  the  petty  world  of  English  Venice  had 
always  looked  a  little  askance  at  Mrs.  Irving  as  'a 
woman,  don't  you  know,  who's  living  apart  from  her 
husband  * — and  then,  with  an  ugly  sneer — *  that  is  to 
say,  if  she  has  one.'  But  to  Kathleen,  the  beautiful 
woman  with  the  prematurely  gray  hair  was  simply  the 
dearest  and  kindest  of  friends,  the  most  trustworthy 
person  she  had  ever  come  across. 

It  was  to  Mrs.  Irving,  then,  that  Kathleen  went  at 
once  to  impart  her  difficulty  about  Reggie  and  Bufus 
Mortimer.  Her  friend  listened  to  her  with  tender 
interest  and  instinctive  sympathy.  As  soon  as  Kath- 
leen had  finished,  the  elder  woman  rose  and  kissed  her 
forehead  affectionately. 

*  Now  tell  me,  dear,'  she  said,  gazing  into  Kathleen's 
frank  eyes,  '  if  your  sailor  were  to  come  back  to  you, 
would  you  love  him  still?'  For  Kathleen  had  only 
described  Arnold  Willoughby's  reasons  for  leaving 
Venice  in  the  most  general  terms,  and  had  never 
betrayed  his  secret  as  to  the  Earldom  of  Axminster. 

*  I  love  him  now,  as  it  is,'  Kathleen  answered  can- 
didly :  *  of  course  J  should  love  him  then.    I  love  him 


UipjiliJLiy.  1.11114;'  wpi!yit4|W4PJH(pp«'  I 


THE  WISE  WOMAN 


229 


better  than  I  did  before  he  left  me,  Mrs.  Irving.  I 
seem  to  love  him  more  the  longer  he  stays  away  from 
me.' 

'  And  you  don't  love  Mr.  Mortimer  ?'  Mrs.  Irving 
said  once  more. 

*No,*  Kathleen  answered.  *I  only  like  him  and 
respect  him  immensely.  But  Eeggie  seems  to  thinli 
that's  all  that's  necessarv.' 

The  security  was  insufficient ;  but  'tis  so  that 
good  women  will  bow  to  the  opinion  of  their  men 
relations.  Mrs.  Irving  took  the  girl's  two  hands 
between  her  own  caressingly.  A  beautiful  middle- 
aged  woman,  with  soft  wavy  hair,  and  that  chastened 
loveliness  which  comes  to  beautiful  women  with  the 
touch  of  a  great  sorrow,  she  revolted  in  soul  against 
this  fraternal  despotism. 

*E«)ggie!'  she  cried  with  a  little  contempt  in  her 
tone.  *  What  has  Eeggie  to  do  with  it  ?  It's  your- 
self ai  d  the  two  men  and  th«  essential  truth  of  things 
frou  hive  to  reckon  with  first.  Kathleen,  dear  Kath- 
I'3en,  never  believe  that  specious  falsehood  people 
sometimes  would  foist  upon  you  about  the  unselfish- 
ness of  marrying  a  man  you  don't  really  love,  for  the 
sake  of  your  family.  It  isn't  unselfishness  at  all ;  it's 
injustice,  cruelty,  moral  cowardice,  infamy.  The 
most  wrong  thing  any  woman  can  do  in  life  is  to  sell 
herself  for  money  where  her  heart  is  untouched.  li's 
not  merely  wrong ;  it's  disgrace ;  it's  dishonour.  Out 
of  the  bitterness  of  my  heart,  my  mouth  speaketh. 
Shall  I  tell  you  my  own  story,  dear  ?  It  happened  in 
this  way.  When  I  was  young,  very  young — only  just 
BGventeen— my  mother  was  left  with  a  tiny  Uttle 
income.  It  was  almost  less  than  would  keep  us  three 
alive,  herself  and  me  and  my  sister  Olive.     Then 


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Colonel  Irving  saw  me,  and  was  taken  with  me  iot 
the  moment;  he  was  a  very  rich  man,  years  older 
than  myself,  and  one  of  the  higgest  officials  on 
the  Gonncil  in  India.  He  proposed  to  me.  I  was 
frightened,  tho  igh,  girl-like,  I  was  flattered ;  and  I 
told  my  mother.  Instead  of  telling  me  to  avoid  the 
snare,  she  hegged  and  prayed  me  to  accept  him. 

*  "  But  I  don't  love  him,"  I  said. 

* "  You  will,"  my  mother  answered. 

*  I  knew  I  was  doing  wrong ;  but  when  one's  only 
seventeen,  one  hardly  quite  realizes  that  when  you 
marry  once  you  marry  for  a  lifetime.  I  accepted 
him  at  last,  under  that  horrid  mistaken  notion  that 
I  was  sacrificing  myself  nobly  for  my  mother's  sake, 
and  was  so  very  unselfish.  He  took  me  out  to  India. 
For  a  year  or  two  we  lived  together,  not  happily, 
indeed — ^I  can  never  say  it  was  happily,  but  without 
open  rupture.  Then  Colonel  Irving  saw  plainly  that, 
though  he  had  bought  me  and  paid  for  me,  I  didn't 
and  couldn't  love  him.  I  did  my  best,  it's  true,  to 
carry  out  as  far  as  I  could  that  wicked  and  cruel 
bargain ;  I  tried  to  like  him ;  I  tried  to  act  fairly  to 
him.  But  all  the  time  I  felt  it  was  degradation, 
misery,  pollution,  wickedness.  And  he  saw  it  too.  I 
have  no  word  of  blame  for  him.  At  last,  one  morning, 
he  disappeared  suddenly,  and  left  a  note  behind  him. 
He  had  gone  off  to  Europe,  and — somebody  else  had 
gone  with  him.' 

'  And  then  ?'  Kathleen  asked,  bending  forward. 

*  Well)  then,  dear,  I  fdt  it  was  all  over,  and  I  knew 
it  was  my  fault,  because  X  hadn't  had  the  moral  courage 
at  first  to  say  no  outright  to  him.  I  did  what  no 
woman  ought  ever  to  do^et  him  take  my  hand  when 
my  heart  was  not  his ;  and  I  had  to  pay  the  penalty 


.  /-. 


I. 


THE  WISE  WOMAN 


i3» 


of  it.  And  so  will  you,  too,  if  you  do  as  I  did.  One 
way  or  the  other,  you  will  have  to  pay  the  penalty. 
He  was  just  to  me  after  his  lights ;  severely  just — I 
might  almost  say  generous ;  he  offered  to  make  me  an 
allowance  of  half  his  income.  But  I  wrote  back  and 
said  no.  I  would  never  again  take  a  penny  that  was 
his.  I  would  enrn  my  own  living.  So  I  began  at  art, 
in  a  small  way  at  first ;  and  I  worked  on  at  it  with  a 
will  till  I  could  keep  myself  easily.  Then  I  did  more 
than  that.  I  worked  and  saved  till  I  could  send  him 
one  day  a  cheque  for  every  penny  he  had  ever  sj^ent 
upon  me.  He  refused  to  receive  it.  I  refused  to 
take  it  back.  I  sent  the  money,  in  his  name,  in 
gold,  to  his  banker's.  He  wouldn't  touch  it.  And 
there  it  lies  to  this  day,  and  neither  of  us  will 
claim  it.' 
,     *  That  was  splendid  of  you !'  Kathleen  cried.    • 

*  No,  my  dear;  it  was  just.  Nothing  more  than  bare 
justice.  I  had  made  a  hateful  bargain,  which  no 
woman  should  ever  make,  for  the  sake  of  her  own 
dignlly,  her  own  purity,  her  own  honour ;  and  I  was 
bound  to  do  the  best  I  could  do  to  unmake  it.  But  I 
tell  you  all  this  now,  that  you  may  see  for  yourself 
how  wrong  it  is  for  any  woman  to  do  as  I  did ;  that 
you  may  learn  to  avoid  my  mistake  betimes,  Beggie 
or  no  Beggie,  while  it  may  yet  be  avoided.' 

*  You're  right,'  Kathleen  said,  drawing  back  with  a 
sudden  flash  of  conviction.  'It's  debasing  and  degrad- 
ing, when  one  fairly  faces  it.  But  what  am  I  to  do  ? 
Beggie  declares  if  I  don't  marry  Mr.  Mortimer  he'll 
commit  suicide  instantly.  He's  in  a  dreadful  state  of 
mind.  I  had  to  make  him  promise  last  night  he 
wouldn't  do  anything  rash  till  he  saw  me  to-day ;  and 
even  now  I  don't  know  what  he  may  have  done  mean- 


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while,  as  soon  as  he  got  alone,  and  was  left  by  himself 
with  his  remorse  and  misery.' 

'  Beggie  1'  Mrs.  Irving  exclaimed,  with  a  sudden 
melodious  drop  from  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous. 
*0h,  my  dear,  don't  you  trouble  your  head  for  a 
moment  about  him.  He's  '^s  right  as  ninepence.  He*8 
not  going  to  commit  suicide.  Eemorse  and  misery  1 
Why,  I  was  at  the  Court  Theatre  in  the  boxes  last 
night,  and  there,  if  you  please,  was  Master  Beggie  in 
the  stalls,  with  a  pretty  young  woman,  close-cropped 
and  black-haired,  with  a  cheek  like  a  ripe  peach,  who, 
I  suppose,  was  his  Florrie.  They  were  eating  Neapo- 
litan ices  all  through  the  interlude,  and  neither  of 
them  seemed  to  have  the  slightest  intention  of  com- 
mitting suicide  in  the  immediate  future.' 

That  was  a  fortunate  accident  for  Kathleen.  It 
relieved  her  mind  immensely  for  the  moment;  it 
decided  her  that  Mrs.  Irving's  advice  was  sound,  and 
that  she  would  be  doing  injustice  to  her  own  higher 
nature  if,  for  Beggie's  sake,  she  accepted  the  man  she 
didn't  love,  to  the  exclusion  of  the  man  she  loved  so 
dearly. 

But  while  Kathleen  was  discussing  this  matter  thus 
earnestly  with  Mrs.  Irving,  her  brother  Beggie,  on  his 
way  down  to  the  City,  had  managed  to  dro^  in  for  a 
few  minutes'  conversation  with  Buf us  Mortimer  at  his 
house  in  Great  Stanhope  Street.  He  had  called, 
indeed,  for  a  double  diplomatic  purpose,  cloaked 
beneath  a  desire  to  see  Mortimer  at  dinner  with  his 
wife  on  Saturday. 

*  Our  rooms  are  small,'  Beggie  said  airily,  with  the 
consummate  grace  of  a  great  gentleman  extending  an 
invitation  to  a  lordly  banquet  in  his  ancestral  halls ; 
*  we've  hardly  space  for  ourselves  even  to  turn  about 


THE  WISE  WOMAN 


233 


in  them;  and  as  to  b winging  a  cat,  why,  it  would 
ahnost  amount  to  culpable  cruelty.  But  we  should  be 
delighted  to  see  you  at  our  annexe,  the  Criterion — first 
door  on  the  right  as  you  enter  the  big  gate — dinner 
h  la  carte,  best  of  its  kind  in  London.  Half-past 
seven,  did  I  say  ?  Yes,  that  will  suit  us  admirably. 
Florrie's  longing  to  see  you,  I've  told  her  so  much 
about  you.' 

*Why?'  Mortimer  asked,  with  a  smile,  half  guessing 
the  reason  himself. 

Beggie  smirked  and  hesitated. 

'  Well,  T  thought  it  not  improbable  from  what  I  saw 
and  heard,'  he  answered  at  last  with  affected  delicacy, 
*that  we  might — in  future — under  certain  contingencies 
— see  a  good  deal  more  of  you.' 

And  he  looked  at  his  man  meaningly. 

Eufus  Mortimer  was  reserved,  as  is  the  American 
habit ;  but  he  couldn't  help  following  out  this  decided 
trail.  By  dexterous  side-hints,  he  began  questioning 
Eeggio  as  to  Kathleen's  intentions;  whereupon  Eeggie, 
much  rejoiced  that  Mortimer  should  so  easily  fall  into 
his  open  trap,  made  answer  in  the  direction  that  best 
suited  his  own  interests.  He  rendered  it  tolerably 
clear  by  obscure  suggestions  that  Kathleen  had  once 
been  in  love,  and  still  considered  herself  to  be  so ;  but 
that,  in  her  brother's  opinion,  the  affection  was  wear- 
ing out,  was  by  no  means  profound,  and  might  be 
easily  overcome;  moreover,  that  she  cherished  for 
Buf us  Mortimer  himself  a  feeling  which  was  capable 
of  indefinite  intensification*  All  this  Beggie  hinted  at 
great  length  in  the  most  roundabout  way ;  but  he  left 
in  the  end  no  doubt  at  all  upon  Bufus  Mortimer's 
mind  as  to  his  real  meaning.  By  the  time  Mr.  B^ginald 
rose  to  go,  Mortimer  was  quite  convinced  that  he 


mm^mmmmm 


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AT  MARKET  VALUE 


might  still  win  Kathleen's  heart,  and  that  her  brother 
would  be  a  most  powerful  auxiliary  in  his  campaign, 
to  have  secured  whose  good-will  was  no  slight  advan- 
tage. 

At  the  door  Eeggie  paused. 

'  Dear  me !'  he  said,  feeling  abstractedly  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket ;  *  I've  left  my  purse  at  home,  and 
I  meant  to  take  a  cab.  I'm  late  already,  and  now 
I'll  have  to  tramp  it.  That's  a  dreadful  nuisance, 
for  they're  death  on  punctuality  at  our  office  in  the 
City.' 

*  Can  I  lend  you  a  few  shillings  ?'  the  unsuspecting 
American  asked,  too  innocent  to  see  through  Mr. 
Beginald's  peculiar  tactics. 

*  Oh,  thanks,  awfully,'  Eeggie  answered  in  his  non- 
chalant way,  as  if  it  were  the  smallest  matter  in  the 
world.  '  I  should  be  glad  of  a  sovereign.  I  can  pay  it 
back  on  Saturday  when  we  meet  at  the  Criterion.' 

'  I've  nothing  less  than  a  fiver,'  Mortimer  observed, 
drawing  it  out. 

Reggie's  hands  closed  over  the  piece  of  paper  like  a 
shot. 

'  Oh,  it's  all  the  same,'  he  replied,  with  a  smile  he 
could  hardly  suppress,  sticking  it  carelessly  into  his 
pocket.  *  Fm  awfully  obliged  to  you.  It's  so  awkward 
to  go  out  without  one's  purse  in  London.  Ta-ta,  then, 
till  Saturday.* 

'  He's  going  to  be  my  brother-in-law,'  Eeggie  thought 
complacently  to  himself  as  he  descended  the  stairs ; 
'and,  after  all,  a  gentleman  may  borrow  any  day  from 
his  brother-in-law.* 

So  firmly  did  he  act  upon  this  prospective  relation- 
ship, indeed,  that  this  was  only  the  first  of  many  suc- 
cessive fivers,  duly  entered  in  Bufus  Mortimer's  book 


'*7 


THE  WISE  WOMAN 


935 


of  expenditure  as  'Advanced  on  loan  to  K.  H.'s 
brother.'  But  notes  of  their  repayment  on  the  credit 
Bide  were  strangely  absent. 

Nay,  so  much  elated  was  the  honest-hearted  young 
American  at  this  fraternal  visit,  with  the  opportunity 
it  afforded  him  of  doing  some  slight  service  to  a 
member  of  Kathleen's  family,  that,  as  soon  as  Beggie 
was  gone,  he  sat  down  and  indited  a  letter  full  of  love 
and  hope  to  Kathleen  herself,  declaring  that  he  would 
honestly  do  his  best  to  find  Arnold  Willoughby,  but 
asking  with  much  fervour  whether,  if  he  failed  in  that 
quest,  there  would  yet  be  any  chance  for  any  other 
suitor.  He  wrote  it  in  a  white  heat  of  passionate 
devotion. 

It  was  a  letter  that  Kathleen  could  not  read 
without  tears  in  her  eyes;  for  no  woman  is  unsus- 
ceptible to  the  pleasure  of  receiving  a  declaration  of 
love,  couched  in  ardent  terms,  from  a  man  she  can 
respect  and  admire,  even  if  she  cannot  accept  him. 
But  she  sat  down,  none  the  less,  and  answered  it  at 
once,  with  tenderness  and  tact,  in  the  decided  nega- 
tive.    , 


*  Your  letter  has  touched  me  deeply,*  she  said,  *as 
all  your  kindness  always  does ;  and  if  I  could  say  yes 
to  any  man,  apart  from  Him,  I  could  say  yes  to  you, 
dear  Mr.  Mortimer.  If  I  had  never  met  Him,  I  might 
perhaps  have  loved  you  dearly.  But  I  have  loved  one 
man  too  well  in  my  time  ever  to  love  a  second ;  and 
whether  I  find  him  again  or  not,  my  mind  is  quite 
made  up — I  cannot  and  will  not  give  myself  to  any 
other.  I  speak  to  you  frankly,  because  from  the  very 
first  you  have  known  my  secret,  and  because  I  can 
Xx^Bt  and  respect  Sknd,  like  you.    But  if  ever  I  meet 


^iWiPii!PPi!i^?WliPPPi 


236 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


him  agai  1, 1  shall  be  his,  and  his  only ;  and  his  only 
I  must  be  if  I  never  again  meet  him.' 

Mortimer  read  the  letter  with  dim  eyes;  then  he 
folded  it  up  with  reverence,  and  placed  it  securely  in 
a  leather  case  in  his  pocket.  There  he  carried  it  for 
many  days,  and  often  looked  at  it.  Bej action  though 
it  was,  it  yet  gave  him  a  strange  delight  to  read  over 
and  over  again  those  simple  words : 

*  If  I  could  say  yes  to  any  man,  apart  from  Him,  I 
could  say  yea  to  you,  dear  Mr.  Mortimer.' 


'^^ 


CHAPTEE  XXIL 


ISLES  OF  WINTER. 


Arnold  Willou0hby  had  a  strong  constitution;  but 
that  second  summer  in  the  Northern  seas  told  upon 
his  health  even  more  seriously  than  all  his  previous 
seafaring.  Perhaps  it  was  the  result  of  his  great  dis- 
appointment ;  perhaps  it  was  the  sense  of  nothing  left 
in  thiij  life  to  live  for ;  but,  at  any  rate,  he  grew  thin  and 
weak,  and  lost  heart  for  his  work,  in  a  way  that  was 
unusual  with  so  vigorous  a  sailor.  The  skipper,  as  he 
looked  at  him,  thought  Willoughby  wouldn't  ever  be 
fit  for  another  sealing  voyage — thought  it  in  that  hard, 
purely  objective  way  that  is  habitual  to  skippers  in 
dealing  with  seamen.  And  Arnold  Willoughby  him- 
self began  to  recognise  the  fact  that  he  was  growing 
ill  and  worn  with  these  continued  hardships.  Life 
had  been  a  failure  for  him.  His  day  was  over.  He 
was  one  cf  those,  he  feared,  who  must  go  to  the  waU 


5S3« 


IlillJPWiliil 


ISLES  OF  WINTER 


237 


in  the  ceaseless  struggle  for  life  which  nature  imposes 
upon  us. 

But,  at  any  rate,  he  would  go  to  the  wall  like  a  man 
—he  would  live  or  die  on  his  own  poor  earnings.  Ht 
never  went  back  for  a  moment  upon  the  principles  he 
had  established  for  himself  in  early  manhood.  From 
the  doy  when  he  saw  his  cousin  Algy's  claim  admitted 
in  full  by  the  House  of  Lords,  he  considered  himself 
as  nothing  more  than  Arnold  Willoughby,  an  able- 
bodied  seaman — and  not  even  that  now,  as  things 
were  taking  him.  Yet  he  was  himself,  for  all  that. 
Even  though  you  go  sealing  on  the  Greenland  coasts, 
you  can't  quite  get  "d  of  the  cultivated  habits  and 
tastes  of  a  gentleman.  Arnold  Willoughby,  for  his 
part,  never  desired  to  get  rid  of  them.  He  loved  the 
things  of  the  mind  in  spi*3  of  everything.  During  his 
earlier  years  of  apprenticeship  to  the  perils  of  the  sea, 
he  had  yearned  for  art ;  now  he  had  given  up  art  for 
the  moment,  he  took  in  its  place  to  literature.  The 
sailors  in  the  fo'c'sle  of  the  Sheriff  Ivory,  of  Dundee, 
were  much  amused  from  time  to  time  at  Willoughby's 
rummy  way  of  writing  at  odd  moments  in  a  pocket- 
book  he  kept  by  him  ;  and,  indeed,  at  all  spare  hours 
he  was  erigaged  by  himself  in  a  curious  piece  of  work 
whose  meaning  and  import  the  average  mariner's  mind 
could  hardly  fathom.  He  was  deciphering  and  translat- 
ing the  Elizabethan  English  sailor's  manuscript  which 
he  had  picked  up  by  accident  in  the  little  shop  at  Venice. 

He  did  it  merely  to  please  himself ;  and  therefore 
he  was  able  to  spend  a  great  deal  more  time  and 
trouble  over  doing  it  to  perfection  than  he  could 
possibly  have  spent  if  he  were  one  of  the  miserable 
drudges  who  live  by  the  professional  pursuit  of  letters 
under  our  hard-faced  r^ime.    He  translated  it  QOir^- 


■,« 


iPip^piPipnp! 


ppip 


■y-wmsmm^^i^ 


HfgW    "       >'-S?Wt"''=-1S«^ 


-  : 

■   '■■■ 

;  r 


'  f^ 


;■-■• 


;.Jti. 


?V.: 


338 


i4r  MARKET  VALUE 


fully,  lovingly,  laboriously.  Day  after  day  in  his 
spare  moments  he  took  out  a  page  at  a  time,  and 
transcribed  and  Englished  it  with  studious  pains  in 
his  little  pocket  note-book.  For  two  seasons  he  had 
gone  on  with  this  amateur  authorship,  if  such  it 
might  be  called ;  and  towards  the  end  of  the  second 
he  had  pretty  fairly  finished  his  allotted  taskwork. 

But  the  fo'c'sle  of  a  sealer  in  full  pursuit  of  oil  is 
by  no  means  an  ideal  place  for  hterary  composition. 
Many  a  time  and  oft  Arnold  was  interrupted  by  rude 
pleasantries  or  angry  calls;  many  a  time  he  was 
delayed  by  the  impossibility  of  -finding  room  for  a  few 
minutes'  work  even  on  so  humble  a  basis.  At  last, 
one  afternoon,  towards  the  close  of  the  sealing  season, 
he  was  told  off  with  a  dozen  other  men  for  a  run  in  a 
boat  down  the  ice-bound  coast  in  search  of  fresh  seal- 
ing-grounds.  His  party  were  on  the  look-out  for 
Greenland  seals,  which  usually  bask  and  flounder  in 
the  sun  on  the  blocks  in  ice-floes ;  and  they  had  rowed 
to  a  considerable  distance  from  their  ship  without 
perceiving  any  *  fish,'  as  the  sealers  call  them.  Their 
road  lay  through  a  floating  mass  of  blue  crystalline 
ice-blocks.  At  last  the  pack  grew  too  thick  for  them 
to  penetrate  any  further,  and  the  bo'sun  in  charge, 
blowing  his  whistle  from  the  stern,  gave  the  word  to 
return  to  the  Sheriff  Ivory.  They  rowed  back  again 
about  half  a  knot,  in  full  sight  of  their  ship,  when  it 
became  gradually  apparent  that  they  were  becoming 
surrounded  by  icebergs.  A  change  in  the  wind 
brought  them  along  unexpectedly.  One  after  another, 
the  great  white  mountains  loomed  up  and  approached 
them  from  all  sides,  apparently  sailing  in  very  direc- 
tion at  once,  though  really,  oi  c  nurse,  only  veering 
yrith  thQ  breeze  from  difi'erent  quarters  v\  the  samQ 


L"'^-*-?^ 


npiPPPiP^ 


wmmm^^^'msiiw^m^fw^'^ 


ISLES  OF  WINTER 


K9 


general  direction.  The  bo'sun  looked  at  them  with 
some  dislike.  '  Ah  doan't  care  for  bergs,'  he  said  in 
his  thick  Sunderland  dialect.  *  Tha've  got  naw  pilot 
boord.'  And,  indeed,  the  icebergs  seemed  to  be  drift- 
ing in  every  direction,  hither  and  thither  at  random, 
without  much  trace  of  a  rudder.  Closer  and  closer 
they  drew,  those  huge  glacial  islands,  two  large  ones 
in  particular  almost  blocking  the  way  to  the  ship  in 
front  of  them.     The  bo'sun  looked  at  them  again. 

*  Toom  her  aboot,  boys,'  he  said  once  more  in  a  very 
decided  way.  *  Easy  all,  bow  side :  row  hke  blazes, 
you  oother  uns !  Ah'm  thinkin'  we'll  naw  be  able  to 
break  through  them  by  that  quarter.' 

The  men  turned  the  boat  instantly  in  obedience  to 
his  word,  and  began  rowing  for  their  lives  in  the 
opposite  direction.  It  was  away  from  the  ship ;  but, 
in  their  present  strait,  the  first  thing  to  be  thought  of 
was  a  'ding  the  pressing  danger  from  the  icebergs 
at  all  hazards.    By-and-by  the  bo'sun  spoke  again. 

*  Ah'm  thinkin*,'  he  said  slowly,  *  tha're  toornin'  them- 
sel's  this  way,  mates.' 

Arnold  Willoughby  glanced  round.  It  was  only  too 
true.  The  icebergs,  which  were  two  enormous  blocks 
of  white  shimmering  crystal,  half  a  mile  or  more  in 
length,  had  shifted  their  course  somewhat,  and  were 
now  coming  together,  apparently  both  behind  and  in 
front  of  them.  The  boat  lay  helpless  in  a  narrow 
chamnei  of  blue  water  between  the  high  walls  of  ice 
that  glistened  in  the  sun  like  chalk  cliffs  in  August. 
At  the  rate  the  bergs  were  moving,  it  would  take  only 
some  ten  or  twelve  minutes  for  them  to  shock  and 
shiver  against  one  another's  sides.  The  prospect  was 
appalling.  Human  arms  could  hardly  carry  the  boat 
free  of   their  point  of   contact    before  they  finally 


lllliyiippiPiiipiN^     mMM 


240 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


collided.  In  that  moment  of  danger,  not  a  word  was 
spoken.  Every  man  saw  the  peril  for  himself  at  once> 
and  bent  forward  to  the  long  sweeps  with  terrible  in- 
tensity of  energy.  Meanwhile,  those  vast  moving 
islands  of  ice  came  resistlessly  on,  now  sailing  ahead 
for  a  moment  before  a  gust  of  wind,  now  halting  and 
veering  again  with  some  slight  change  in  the  breeze. 
Yet,  on  the  whole,  they  drew  steadily  nearer  and 
nearer,  till  at  last  Arnold  Willoughby,  looking  up, 
saw  the  green  crystal  mountains  rising  almost  pheer 
above  their  heads  to  the  terrific  height  of  several 
hundred  feet  like  huge  cliffs  of  alabaster. 

*  Noo  look  oA,  boys,'  the  bo'sun  cried  in  a  solemn 
voice  of  warning.  *  Tha'U  strike  afore  long.'  And 
every  eye  in  the  boat  was  fixed  at  once,  as  he  spoke, 
on  the  approaching  monsters. 

Scarcely  room  was  left  between  them  for  the  boat 
to  pass  out ;  and  she  was  still  many  yards  from  the 
point  where  the  blue  channel  between  the  bergs  began 
to  widen  again.  A  sort  of  isthmus  of  water,  a  narrow 
open  strait,  intervened  between  them  and  the  wider 
part  of  the  interval.  T\.o  clashing  capes  of  ice 
obstructed  it.  On  and  on  came  the  great  mountains 
of  glistening  white  crystal,  tall,  terrible,  beautiful,  in 
irresistible  energy.  The  men  crouched  and  cowered. 
Arnold  "Willoughby  knew  their  -last  moment  had  come. 
There  was  no  way  out  of  it  now.  In  another  second 
the  bergs  would  crash  together  with  a  thunder  of  the 
sea ;  their  little  cock-boat  would  be  shivered  to  frag- 
ments before  the  mighty  masses  of  the  jarring  ice- 
mountains  ;  and  they-themselves,  mere  atoms,  would 
be  crushed  to  a  pulp  as  instantly  and  unconsciously  as^ 
an  ant  is  crushed  under  the  wheel  of  a  carriage.  Not 
a  man  tried  to  pull  another  stroke  at  the  oars.    Every 


m 


SiiBKL  ~ 


;iii#:^§fey 


■  f  *  i(Wr  ft^  5t^-  < 


ISLES  OF  WINTER 


a4t 


eye  was  riveted  on  the  horrible  moving  deaths. 
Their  arms  were  as  if  paralyzed.  They  could  but  look 
and  look,  awaiting  their  end  in  speechless  terror. 

At  that  awful  moment,  just  before  the  unconscious 
masses  struck  and  shivered  into  pieces,  a  flood  of 
strange  thought  broke  at  once  over  Arnold  Wil- 
loughby's  mind.  And  it  summed  itself  up  in  the 
thousandfold  repetition  of  the  one  word  Kathleen, 
Kathleen,  Kathleen,  Kathleen. 

He  thought  it  over  and  over  again,  in  a  sudden 
agony  of  penitence.  With  a  rush,  it  burst  in  upon 
him  that  he  had  done  wrong,  grievously  wrong,  to  be 
so  hasty  and  impulsive.  What  misary  he  might  have 
caused  her !  What  injury  he  might  have  inflicted ! 
After  all,  no  man  can  ever  be  quito  certain  even  in  his 
interpretation  of  the  most  seemingly  irresistible  facts. 
What  wrong  he  might  have  done  her — ah,  heaven, 
now  irrevocable !  Irrevocable  I  Irrevocable !  For 
the  mighty  masses  of  ice  stood  above  them  like  pre- 
cipices on  the  brink  of  falling;  and  in  one  second 
more  they  would  shock  together 

Crash!  Crash!  Crash!  Even  before  he  had  finished 
thinking  it,  a  noise  like  thunder,  or  the  loud  rumble  of 
an  earthquake,  deafened  their  ears  with  its  roar, 
redoubled  and  ingeminated.  The  bergs  had  met  and 
clashed  together  in  very  truth,  and  all  nature  seemed 
to  clash  with  them.  A  horrible  boiling  and  seething 
of  the  water  around  them!  A  fearful  shower  of  ice 
shot  upon  them  by  tons!  And  then,  just  before 
Arnold  Willoughby  closed  his  eyes  and  ceased  to  think 
or  feel,  he  was  dimly  aware  of  some  huge  body  from 
above  crushing  and  mangling  him  helplessly.  Pains 
darted  through  him  with  fierce  spasms ;  and  then  all 
was  silence. 


PPI.l|IUWll-:|»fW.>ll 


24a 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


Half  an  hour  passed  away  before  Arnold,  lying  sii^, 
was  again  conscious  of  anything.  •  By  that  tiiae  he 
opened  his  eyes,  and  heard  a  voice  saying  grulti f  : 

'  Why,  Willoughby  ain't  killed  neither !  He's  a- 
lookin'  about  him.' 

At  sound  of  the  voice,  which  came  from  one  of  his 
fellow-sailors,  Arnold  strove  to  raise  himself  on  his 
arm.  As  he  did  so  another  terrible  shoot  of  pain 
made  him  drop  down  again,  half  unconscious.  It 
occurred  to  him  dimly  that  his  arm  must  be  broken. 
Beyond  that  he  knew  nothing,  and  he  lay  there  long, 
nobody  taking,  for  the  time,  any  further  notice  of 
him.        '  ^  ■  .■•■■'■"■-  :.-'.-;:-  ■  ■■■■■^■-.■■■■.  ;-::„; 

When  he  opened  his  eyes  a  second  time  he  could 
see  very  well  why.  They  were  still  surrounded  by  whole 
regiments  of  icebergs,  and  the  remaining  valid  men  of 
the  crew  were  still  rowing  for  dear  life  to  get  clear  of 
the  danger.  But  one  other  man  lay  worse  crushed  than 
himself,  a  mangled  mass  of  clotted  blood  and  torn 
rags  of  clothes  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat;  while  a 
second  one,  by  his  side,  still  alive,  but  barely  that, 
groaned  horribly  at  intervals  in  the  throes  of  deadly 
agony. 

Arnold  lay  back  once  more,  quite  passive  all  the 
while  as  to  whether  they  escaped  or  were  engulfed. 
He  was  weak  and  faint  with  pain ;  and  so  far  as  he 
thought  of  anything  at  all,  thought  merely  in  a  dim 
way  that  he  would  like  to  live  if  only  for  one  thing — 
to  see  Kathleen  Hesslegrave. 

Hours  passed  before  he  knew  what  had  really  hap- 
pened. It  was  a  curious  accident.  An  iceberg  is  a 
huge  floating  mass  of  ice,  only  an  insignificant  part  of 
which  shows  visible  above  water.  The  vastly  greater 
portion  is  submerged  and  unsuspected.    It  is  impos- 


^i 


%iJc.MlSlkJtk 


a*»w"("^---"-—  ■-^' 


rSLES  OF  WINTER 


243 


T'J;    .' 


m 


i 


Bible,  of  course,  to  guess  at  the  shape  of  this  sub- 
merged part,  any  more  than  one  could  guess  at  the 
shape  of  the  submerged  part  of  a  piece  of  ice,  as  it  bobs 
up  and  down  in  n  glass,  by  observation  of  the  bit  that 
protrudes  above  the  water.  These  particular  ice- 
bergs, however,  had  such  exceptionally  sheer  and  per- 
pendicular sides  that  they  looked  like  huge  fragments 
of  an  extended  ice-field  broken  off  laterally;  they 
seemed  to  show  that  the  submerged  portion  was  flush 
with  the  cliffs  they  exhibited  above  water.  Had  that 
been  quite  so,  Arnold  Willoughby's  boat  could  never 
have  escaped  complete  destruction.  It  would  have 
])een  stove  in  and  crushed  between  the  great  colliding 
walls  like  a  nut  under  a  steam-hammer.  But  as  it 
happened,  the  submerged  block  was  slightly  larger  in 
that  direction  than  the  visible  portion ;  and  the  bergs 
thus  crashed  together  for  the  most  part  under  water, 
causing  a  commotion  and  eddy  which  very  nearly  suc- 
ceeded in  swamping  the  boat,  and  which  rendered 
rowing  for  a  minute  or  two  wholly  impossible.  At  the 
same  time,  a  projecting  pirmacle  that  jutted  out  above 
from  the  face  of  the  cliff  came  in  contact  with  another 
part  of  the  opposing  iceberg,  and,  shivering  into  frag- 
ments a  hundred  yards  away  from  them,  broke  up 
with  such  force  that  many  of  its  shattered  pieces  were 
hurled  into  the  boat,  which  they,  too,  threatened  to 
swamp,  but  which  fortunately  resisted  by  the  mere 
elasticity  of  the  water  about  them. 

For  a  minute  or  two,  all  on  board  had  been  tumult 
and  confusion.  It  was  impossible  for  those  who  were 
less  seriously  hurt  to  decide  offhand  upon  the  magni- 
tude of  the  disaster,  or  to  tell  whether  the  bergs, 
recoiling  with  the  shock,  might  not  wheel'  and  collide 
again,  or  lose  balance  and  careen,  sucking  them  under 


■km 


mmmmmiifim^^iw^fi'^ 


344 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


as  they  vrent  with  the  resulting  eddy.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  however,  •  the  collision,  which  had  been  little 
more  than  a  mere  sideward  gliding,  like  the  kiss  of  a 
billiard  ball,  was  by  no  means  a  sej'ious  one.  The 
two  moving  mountains  just  touched  and  glanced  oiT, 
ricocheting,  as  it  were,  and  leaving  the  boat  free  in  a 
moment  to  proceed  upon  her  course.  But  as  soon  as  ' 
the  bo'sun  could  collect  his  wits  and  his  men  for  a 
final  efifort,  he  found  that  one  was  dead ;  while  two 
more,  including  Arnold  Willoughby,  lay  wounded  and 
senseless  at  the  bottom  of  the  gig — whether  actually 
dead  or  only  dying,  they  knew  not. 

Summoning  up  all  their  remaining  nerve,  the  un- 
injured men  seized  their  oars  once  more,  and  rowed 
for  dear  life  in  the  direction  of  the  open.  It  was  half 
an  hour  or  so  before  they  could  consider  themselves 
at  all  clear  of  the  ice  ;  and  even  then  they  had  no  idea 
of  the  distance  from  the  ship,  for  the  Sheriff  Ivory 
herself  could  nowhere  be  sighted..  ' 

For  hours  they  rowed  on  helplessly  over  the  track- 
less waves ;  it  was  dark  before  they  sighted  the 
missing  ship  in  front  of  them.  By  the  time  they  had 
reached  it,  Arnold  Willoughby,  now  faint  and  half 
unconscious  with  cold  and  exposure,  hardly  realized 
as  yet  the  full  extent  of  his  injuries. 

But  when  next  morning  he  woke  again  in  his  bunk 
after  a  night  of  semi-unconsciousness,  he  discovered 
that  his  arm  was  really  broken,  and,  worse  still,  that 
his  right  hand  was  so  crushed  and  maimed  as  to  be 
almost  useless. 

The  voyage  back  to  Dundee  was  for  Arnold  a 
terrible  one.  He  lay  most  of  the  time  in  his  ham- 
mock, for  he  was  now  useless  as  a  '  hand ';  and  his 
arm,  clumsily  set  by  the  mate  and  the  bo'sun,  gave 


:ifii 


ISLES  OF  WINTER 


«45 


S''*^t 


.'iii 


?$■: 
s^-- 


him  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  the  small  hours  of  the 
morning.  Moreover,  his  outlook  for  the  future  was 
exceedingly  doubtful.  It  was  clear  he  would  nevei 
again  be  fit  to  go  to  sea ;  while  the  damage  to  his 
hand,  which  he  feared  was  irrevocable,  would  make 
it  impossible  for  him  to  return  to  the  trade  of  painter. 
Whither  to  turn  for  a  living  when  he  reached  home 
again,  he  knew  not.  Nay,  even  the  desire  to  see 
Kathleen  again,  which  had  come  over  him  so  fiercely 
when  he  sat  under  the  shadow  of  the  impending  ice- 
berg, grew  much  feebler  and  fainter  now  that  he  felt 
how  impossible  it  would  be  for  him  in  future  ever  to 
provide  for  her  livelihood.  More  than  at  any  previous 
time  the  self-deposed  Earl  began  to  realize  to  him- 
self what  a  failure  he  had  proved  on  equal  terms  with 
his  fellow-man  in  the  struggle  for  existence. 

Yet  even  if  you  are  a  failure,  it  is  something  to 
accept  your  position  bravely ;  and  Arnold  Willoughby 
always  accepted  his  own  like  a  man  with  that  cheery 
pessimism  which  is  almost  characteristic  of  his  caste 
in  England. 


"'•S 

^ 


CHAPTER  XXm. 

A  LITERABT  D^BUI. 


After  that  serious  accident,  Arnold  Willoughby  lay 
ill  in  his  bunk  for  several  days  before  he  felt  fit  for 
anything.  Meanwhile,  as  is  the  wont  of  sailor  folk  on 
such  hard  voyages,  he  was  left  entirely  to  himself,  or 
scantily  tended  at  moments  of  leisure  by  his  rough 
companions.  At  last,  one  day,  more  to  still  the 
throbs  of  pain  in  his  shattered  right  hand  than  any- 


946 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


thing  else,  he  aslied  for  the  manusoripfc  of  his  Veno* 
tian  cipher. 

*  Oh,  that?'  his  messmate  saw  as  soon  as  Arnold 
had  clearly  explahied  just  what  it  was  he  wanted. 
'  That  hundle  o'  yaller  papers !  I  threw  them  out 
one  day.  A  pack  o'  rubbish !  I  thought  'twan't 
nothing.' 

'  What  ?    Threw  it  ovi     card  ?'  Arnold  exclaimed, 
taken  aback  and  horrified  at  such  vandalism. 
The  messmate  nodded. 

*  Yes,  th'  old  yaller  un,*  he  answered.  *  Them 
loose  sheets,  all  torn  an'  stained,  if  that's  what  you 
mean.  They  wan't  up  to  much.  I  didn't  set  no  store 
by  'em.* 

'  And  the  note-books  ?'  Arnold  asked,  with  that 
little  tremor  of  fear  which  comes  over  one  when  one 
fancies  the  work  of  months  may  have  been  destroyed 
or  rendered  useless  by  some  casual  piece  of  unthhiking 
carelessness. 

*  Oh,  the  note-books  ?  No,  not  them  ;  theyVe  safe 
enough  in  yonder,*  the  sailor  answered,  nodding  back- 
ward toward  the  locker  by  the  bunk.  *  I  thought 
they  was  more  like,  and  I  didn't  chuck  'em.* 

*  Get  them  out,'  Arnold  cried  nervously.  *  Let  me 
see  them.  I  want  them.*  It  occurred  to  him  that  in 
his  present  necessity  he  might  be  able  to  make  some- 
thing out  of  his  painstaking  translation,  even  if  the 
original  manuscript  itself  had  really  peris led. 

The  sailor  brought  them  out.  Arnold  glanced 
through  them  rapidly.  Yes,  yes  ;  they  were  all  there, 
quite  safe ;  and  as  the  drowning  man  clings  to  the 
proverbial  straw,  so  Arnold  Willoughby  in  his  need 
clung  to  that  precious  manuscript.  He  laid  it  care- 
fully under  his  pillow  when  he  slept,  and  he  spent  a 


A  LITERARY  DEBUT 


U7 


large  part  of  his  waking  time  in  polishing  and  im- 
proving the  diction  of  his  tranalation. 

When  at  last  they  returned  to  Dundee,  An  old  found 
he  had  to  go  into  hospital  for  a  fortnight.  No  sooner 
was  he  out  again,  however,  than  he  made  up  his  mind, 
maimed  hand  and  all,  to  go  up  to  London  and  look 
out  for  Kathleen  Hesslegi'ave.  The  impression  printed 
upon  his  brain  by  that  episode  of  the  icebergs  per- 
sisted with  double  force  now  he  was  fairly  ashore 
again.  Should  he  not  give  his  one  love  at  least  the 
chance  of  proving  herself  a  truer  woman  than  he  had 
ever  thought  her  ? 

He  went  up  to  London  by  sea,  to  save  expense.  As 
soon  as  he  landed,  he  took  a  room  in  a  small  lodging- 
house  in  the  seafaring  quarter.  Then  he  set  to  v/ork 
at  once  to  hunt  up  the  London  Directory  so  as  to  dis- 
cover if  he  could  where  the  Hesslegraves  \v  are  living. 

He  knew  nothing,  of  course,  of  Mrs.  Hesslegrave's 
death ;  but  he  saw  by  the  Directory  that  she  was  no 
longer  ensconced  in  the  old  rooms  at  Kensington. 
The  only  Hesslegrave  now  known  to  the  big  red 
volume,  in  fact,  was  Mr.  Beginald  Hesslegrave,  of 
Capel  Court,  City,  set  down,  with  half  a  dozen  other 
assorted  names,  for  a  flat  in  a  small  lodging-house  in 
the  abyss  of  Brompton. 

Now,  Arnold  remembered  quite  well  that  Kathleen's 
brother  was  named  Beginald ;  so  to  the  unfashionable 
lodging-house  in  the  abyss  of  Brompton  he  directed 
his  steps  accordingly. 

*Is  Mrs.  Hesslegrave  living  here?*  he  asked  the 
slipshod  maid  who  opened  the  door  to  him. 

The  slipshod  maid  mumbled  *  Yes,*  in  an  inarticu- 
late voice,  holding  the  door  in  her  hand  at  the  same 
time,  after  the  fashion  of  her  kind,  as  if  to  bar  his 


■y  . 


i^PijiNiiiWJm;iiilfw_jp;^.yiJif/uii  ,mi  •'•.'?wifw--*.'w^'TT«iPf!mpi^ 


248 


AT  ^lAKKET  VALVE 


entrance  ;  but  Arnold  slipped  past  her  sideways  by  a 
strategic  movement ;  and  the  slipshod  maid,  accepting 
accompliBhed  facts,  showed  him  up,  with  a  very  bad 
grace,  to  the  rooms  on  the  first  floor  which  Reggie  had 
occupied  before  his  marriage,  and  which  he  was  now 
compelled  by  hard  decree  of  fate  to  share  with  Florrie. 

The  slipshod  maid  pushed  open  the  door,  and  with 
the  muttered  words,  '  Genelman  to  see  you,  mum — 
Mr.  Wil'by,'  disappeared  downstairs  again  with  shuf- 
fling rapidity. 

^ut  the  moment  Arnold  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  the  vision  of  beauty  in  the  fluffy  black  hair,  cut 
short  all  over,  and  frizzed  like  a  Papuan's,  he  saw  at 
once  this  couldn't  be  Im  Mrs.  Hesslegrave.  '  I  beg 
your  pardon,'  he  said,  hesitating.  '  I  think  there  must 
be  some  mistake.     I  wanted  to  see  Mrs.  Hesslegrave.* 

*I  am  Mrs.  Hesslegi'ave,'  Florrie  answered  with 
dignity.  Five  foot  two  can  be  dignified  when  it  makes 
its  mind  up  to  it. 

Arnold  started  a  little. 

*  Then  I  suppose  you  must  be  Mr.  Reginald  Hessle- 
grave's  wife,'  he  exclaimed,  taken  aback.  '  I  didn't 
know  he  was  married.' 

*  He's  not  been  married  very  long,*  Florrie  admitted 
with  her  pretty  coquettish  smile,  which  recent  misfor- 
tunes had  not  entirely  clouded.  *  Did  you  want  to  see 
Reggie  ?  He's  just  now  come  in,  and  he'll  be  down  in 
a  minute.' 

Arnold  took  a  seat  and  waited;  but  he  couldn't 
resist  the  temptation  to  ask  at  once,  meanwhile,  the 
latest  tidings  of  Kathleen.  Florrie  had  by  this  time 
acquired  from  her  husband  a  considerable  dislike  of 
that  hard-hearted  woman,  who  wouldn't  marry  a  rich 
man — such  an  easy  thing  to  do — on  purpose  because 


I'n 


RR^ 


I  ■i,P(P^«LW4Ji)l,l!lJl<ui|il|p  Jiiii  m'wms^  •mmm 


A  LITERARY  DtDUT 


240 


she  didn't  wt.nt  to  be  of  upe  to  dear  Beggie.  So  her 
answers  were  of  a  sort  which  made  Arnold  suspect  she 
didn't  particularly  care  for  her  newly-acquired  sister- 
in-law.  By  the  time  Beggie  came  down,  indeed,  she 
had  made  her  position  tolerably  plain  to  Arnold,  and 
had  also  managed,  with  innate  feminine  astuteness,  to 
arrive  at  i)he  conclusion  that  this  was  the  Other  Man 
whom  Kathleen  had  known  a  couple  of  years  ago  at 
Venice.  Nay,  so  convinced  was  she  of  this  fact,  that 
she  made  some  little  excuse  to  leave  Arnold  alone  in 
the  room  for  a  minute  while  she  ran  upstairs  to  com- 
municate her  suspicions  on  the  point  to  Beggie.  This 
vile  interloper,  the  other  man,  must  be  promptly 
crushed  in  the  interests  of  the  family.  When  Beggie 
himself  at  last  descended,  he  fully  shared  Florrie's 
view;  the  very  eagerness  with  which  the  stranger 
asked  after  Kitty's  health  showed  Beggie  at  once  he 
had  very  good  reasons  for  wishing  to  see  her. 

Now,  Beggie,  though  a  silly  young  man,  was  by  no 
means  a  fool  whe^e  his  own  interests  were  concerned ; 
on  the  contrary,  he  was  well  endowed  with  that  intui- 
tive cunning  which  enables  a  man  to  find  out  at  once 
whatever  is  most  to  his  personal  advantage.  So, 
having  arrived  instinctively  at  the  conclusion  that  this 
was  the  other  fellow  of  whom  his  sister  had  spoken, 
he  proceeded,  as  he  phrased  it  himself,  'to  put  a 
spoke  in  the  other  fellow's  wheel '  on  the  subject  of 
Kathleen. 

'  Oh  no,  my  sister's  not  in  town,'  he  said  with  a 
slight  smile,  and  a  quick  side-glance  at  Florrie,  as  a 
warning  that  she  was  not  on  any  account  to  contradict 
this  flagrant  departure  from  historical  accuracy; 
'  she's  gone  down  into  the  country— to  Cromer,  in 
fact,'  Beggie  continued,  growing  bolder  in  the  details 


Pipipfu^^il, 


3^0 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


of  his  romance  as  he  eyed  Arnold  Willoughby.  '  She's 
going  to  stay  there  with  some  friends  of  ours,  to  meet 
another  old  Venetian  acquaintance  whom  I  dare  say 
you  knew — a  charming  young  American,  Mr.  Kufus 
Mortimer.* 

Beggie  delivered  this  home-thrust  direct,  watching 
his  visitor's  face  as  he  did  so  to  see  whether  it  roused 
any  appreciable  emotion;  and  he  was  not  disappointed 
with  the  result  of  his  clever  move.  It  was  *  Check  !* 
most  decidedly. 

Arnold  Willoughby  gave  a  sudden  start. 

*  Rufus  Mortimer  I'  he  exclaimed.  *  She*s  going 
down  to  Cromer  to  stop  with  some  friends  in  the  same 
house  with  Bufus  Mortimer  ?* 

'  Yes,'  Beggie  answered  carelessly.  Then  he  smiled 
to  himself  a  curious  and  very  significant  smile.  *  The 
fact  is,'  he  went  on  boldly,  determined  to  make  that 
spoke  in  the  other  fellow's  wheel  a  good  big  round  one 
vhile  he  was  about  it,  'they're  very  thick  together 
just  now,  our  Kitty  and  the  American.  Between 
*  ourselves,  as  you're  a  friend  of  the  family's,  and  knew 
the  dear  old  mater,  I  don't  mind  tellmg  you — I  rather 
expect  to  reckon  Bufus  Mortimer  as  my  brother-in-law 
elect  before  many  weeks  are  over.'  And  this  last 
remark,  so  far  as  Mr.  Beginald's  own  expectations 
were  concerned,  could  not  be  condemned  as  wholly  un- 
truthful. 

*  Are  they  engaged,  then  ?'  Arnold  asked,  quivering. 
His  worst  fears  were  confirmed.  Failing  the  Earl  in 
disguise,  Kathleen  had  flung  herself  into  the  arms  of 
the  American  millionaire,  as  next  best  among  her 
chances. 

*  Well,  not  exactly  engaged,  don't  you  know,'  Beggie 
responded  p.'.fiiy,     •  Not    quite  what   you   can   call 


it.^^ 


if«-'".'-'  "^  «'-:-mmis^- 


^mmmmmm. 


■,-n^ 


'^*^r 


A  LITERARY  DEBUT 


251 


engaged,  perhaps.  But  it's  an  understood  thing  all 
the  same  in  the  family.* 

Arnold  Willoughby's  heart  sank  like  lead.  He 
didn't  know  why,  but  somehow,  ever  since  that  after- 
noon in  the  ice-channel,  he  had  cherished,  day  and 
night,  a  sort  of  irrational,  instinctive  belief  that,  after 
all,  he  was  mistaken,  and  that  Kathleen  loved  him. 
Yet  now  he  saw  once  more  he  was  in  error  on  that 
point;  she  was  really  nothing  more  than  the  self- 
seeking,  money-loving,  position-hunting  girl  her  own 
mother  had  so  frankly  represented  her  to  be  that 
fateful  day  in  the  rooms  by  the  Piazza. 

Poor  Kathleen  !  She  was  indeed  unfoitunate  in 
her  relations.  At  Venice  it  was  Mrs.  Hesslegrave,  in 
London  it  was  Reggie,  who  so  cruelly  misrepresented 
her  to  her  much  misled  lover. 

Arnold  didn't  stop  long.  Nor  did  he  ask  for  Kath- 
leen's address.  After  all,  if  she  was  really  going  to 
marry  Rufus  Mortimer,  it  would  be  a  pity  for  him 
to  intrude  at  such  a  moment  on  her  happiness. 
Mortimer  was  rich,  and  would  make  her  comfortable. 
Money  was  what  she  wanted,  and  if  Kathleen  wanted 
it . 

Ev(  n  as  he  thought  that  hard  thought,  he  broke  off 
in  his  own  mind  suddenly.  No,  no  ;  it  wasn't  money 
she  wanted,  his  beautiful,  innocent  Kathleen;  of  that 
he  felt  certain.  And  yet,  if  she  really  meant  to  marry 
RufuR  Mortimer,  it  was  at  least  his  duty  not  to  step  in 
now  between  the  piospective  bride  and  her  rich  new 
lover,  who  could  do  bo  much  more  for  her  than  ever 
he  himself  could  do. 

As  soon  as  he  was  gone.  Master  Reggie  turned 
pliilosophicaily  tu  Florrie,  and  observed  with  a 
smile  I  ,  ., 


253 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


*1  settled  hla  hash,  I  flatter  myself.  He  won't 
bother  her  r»ny  more.  I've  sent  him  about  his 
business.  And  a  precious  good  thing  for  herself  too, 
if  it  comes  to  that :  for  just  fancy  a  girl  like  Kitty 
being  tied  for  life  to  a  fellow  in  sailor  clothes,  and 
badly  cut  at  that,  with  no  right  hand  to  brag  about !' 

But  as  for  Arnold,  he  took  his  way  sadly  down  the 
crowded  streets,  with  the  last  remnants  of  a  heart  well- 
nigh  crushed  out  of  him. 

However,  as  long  as  a  man  lives,  he  has  to  think 
about  his  living.  Bread  and  cheese  we  must  have, 
though  our  hearts  be  breaking.  Next  day,  accord- 
ingly, Arnold  called  at  a  well-known  fi'  n  of  publishers 
in  the  City,  Stanley  and  Lockhart  y  name,  to  ask 
whether  any  decision  had  yet  been  arrived  at  about 
the  manuscript  translation  from  an  Italian  original 
he  had  sent  them  by  post  from  Dundee  a  fortnight 
earlier. 

The  senior  partner,  an  acute-looking  man,  with  very 
little  hair  on  his  head  to  boast  of,  gazed  hard  at  his 
visitor. 

'Well,  yes,  Mr.  Willoughby,'  he  said,  with  a  dry 
business  smile.  *  I've  looked  at  your  manuscript,  and 
our  reader  has  reported  on  it;  and  I'm  free  to  ttill  you 
we  think  very  well  of  it.  It's  one  of  tlie  most  brilliant 
bits  of  historical  fiction  we've  had  submitted  to  us  for 
a  long  time.' 

'  Oh.  I  beg  your  pardon,'  Arnold  interposed,  colour- 
ing el't^htly.  *I  think  you're  labouring  under  a 
mife apprehension.  Have  you  read  the  Introduction? 
I  there  explain  that  it's  translated  from  an  Italian 
manufacaipt.' 

'  Yes,  yes,'  Mr.  Stanley  broke  in,  sniiling  still  more 
broadly.     *1  know  all  that,  of  course.     It's  admuable, 


t  ^a.- JtSfe- 


ESaKfwsfef 


A  LITERARY  DEBUT 


253 


admirable.  Nothing  could  be  better  done.  Falls  in 
exactly  with  the  current  taste  for  high-spiced  and 
strongly-flavoured  historical  romance,  with  a  good 
dash  of  bloodshed ;  and  the  Introduction  itself  is 
one  of  the  best  parts — so  circumstantial  and  solemn, 
and  with  such  an  innocent  air  of  truth  and  sin- 
cerity.' 

'But  it  is  true,  you  know,'  Arnold  cried,  annoyed  at 
being  doubted,  which  was  the  one  thing  a  man  of  his 
sensitive  honour  could  never  put  up  with.  *  I  found 
the  manuscript  at  Venice,  in  a  tiny  little  shop,  exactly 
under  the  circumstances  I  there  describe ;  and  I  trans- 
lated it  into  English  during  my  spare  time  on  board 
ships  in  two  Northern  voyages.* 

*  In-deed !'  the  publisher  replied,  with  a  quiet,  self- 
restrained  smile.  He  was  accustomed  to  dealing  with 
these  imaginative  authors,  some  of  whon  it  is 
whispered,  do  not  entirely  confine  their  faculty  of 
fiction  to  mere  literary  products.  *  And  where  is  the 
manuscript  now?  It  would  be  an  interesting  docu- 
ment.* 

'  Unfortunately,  it's  lost,*  Arnold  Willoughby 
answered,  growing  hot.  *  One  of  my  fellow-sailors 
took  it  out  of  my  locker  while  I  was  confined  to  my 
bunk  with  this  injured  hand  of  mine,  and  destroyed  it 
or  threw  it  overboard.  At  any  rate,  it's  not  forth- 
coming. And  I'm  sorry  for  that,  as  it's  U  historical 
importance,  and,  of  course,  it  would  be  useful  in 
proving  the  authenticity  and  value  of  the  narra- 
tive.' 

'  Very  useful  indeed,'  Mr.  Stanley  replied,  with  a 
meaning  smile,  which  again  annoyed  Arnold.  '  How- 
ever, the  question  now  is  not  as  to  the  authenticity  or 
authorship  of  the  narrative  at  all,  but  as  to  its  monty'a 


,   .«-i/»!j-..r,,>. 


fMm 


lAaPiTsmSni: 


QPiPlilPliPiliPPMIi^ni 


p«ii|j|iipiiiilipK-i.i.,.,.ii  ^m 


*54 


.47  MARKET  VALUE 


h' 


.?w.. 


Jl 

'A 


worth  for  purposes  of  publication.  We  will  agree  that 
it  is  essentially  a  work  of  fiction.  Whether  it  was 
written  by  you,  or  by  Master  John  CoUingham,  of 
Holt,  in  Norfolk,  it's  still  a  work  of  fiction.  He  may 
have  designed  it  to  amuse  or  to  deceive  the  Council  of 
Ten;  but,  any  way,  I  tell  you,  he  was  a  first-rate 
novelist.  I  deal  in  these  things,  nnd  I  flatter  myself 
I  know  a  work  of  art  when  I  see  it.  Well,  now,  then, 
let's  get  to  business,  Mr.  Willougbby.  What  I  should 
propose  to  do,  is  to  buy  the  copyright  outright  from 
you.  And  as  this  is  a  doubtful  venture  by  a  new 
author,  suppose  we  make  you  an  off'er  of  fifty  pounds 
for  the  manuscript.' 

Arnold's  heart  gave  a  wild  leap.  Fifty  pounds! 
Why,  ao  things  now  went,  'twas  a  perfect  Pactolus ! 
On  fifty  pounds  he  could  subsist  for  a  twelvemonth. 
Since  he  ceased  to  be  Earl  of  Axminster,  he  had  never 
for  a  moment  had  so  large  a  sum  at  one  time  in  his 
possession. 

He  didn't  know  he  was  making  a  bad  bargain ;  and, 
indeed,  so  doubtful  did  his  poor  little  venture  seem  to 
himself,  that  even  if  someone  else  of  greater  experience 
had  stood  by  his  side  to  warn  him  against  selling  a 
piece  of  property  of  unknown  value  outiight  like  that 
for  the  first  sura  offered,  ho  would  probably  have 
answered,  and  perhaps  answered  rightly  : 

*rd  rather  take  fifty  pounds  down,  and  be  certain 
of  my  money,  than  speculate  on  what  may,  pr^-hn^x?, 
be  a  bad  investment.'  '■        ,  j 

Fifty  pounds  down  is  a  big  sum  to  a  beginne;- ;  ard 
the  beginner  would  most  often  Ix  justi'ul  in  juMM^ing 
at  it. 

At  any  rate,  Arnold  jumped  at  It.  HIb  face  flue^-jd 
with  pleasure. 


1411  ip  I  -  ippvjllippipilllippi 


A  LITERARY  DEBUT 


855 


'  I  should  be  delighted,'  he  said,  '  to  accept  such  an 
offer.    And  the  book  would  come  out  ?' 

*  At  the  beginning  of  the  new  season.  Very  well, 
then,  that's  settled.' 

Mr.  Stanley  took  up  a  blank  form  of  agreement 
lying  careless  by  his  side,  and  filling  it  in  rapidly  with 
name,  date,  and  title,  as  well  as  valuable  considera- 
tion, handed  it  across  forthwith  for  inspection  to 
Arnold.         •  - 

*  Is  that  right  ?'  he  asked,  with  a  wave  of  his  pen. 

*  Quite  right,'  Arnold  answered,  'except  that,  of 
course,  you  mustn't  say  "  written  by  me."  It  ought 
to  be  "  deciphered  and  translated  by  me."  I  can't 
sell  you  as  mine  what  I've  never  written.' 

The  publisher  gave  a  abort  sniff  of  suppressed  im- 
patience, but  drew  his  pen  half  angrily  throue;h  the 
peccant  words. 

'  There.    Will  that  satisfy  you  ?'  he  asked. 

And  Arnold,  glancing  at  it,  took  up  the  proffered 
pen  and  signed  his  name  at  the  bottom. 

Mr.  Stanley  drew  a  cheque  and  handed  it  over  to 
him. 

Arnold  scanned  it  and  handed  it  back. 

'  I'm  afraid  this  won't  do,'  he  paid.  '  It's  crossed,  I 
see,  and  I  happen  to  have  no  banking  account.  Could 
you  ki    lly  give  me  one  drawn  simply  to  bearer  ?' 

*  No  banking  account  ?'  the  publisher  cried. 

This  was  certainly  the  very  queerest  sort  oi  literary 
man  he  had  ever  yet  come  across. 

*  No,'  Arnold  answered  stoutly.  '  You  must  remeiiber 
I'm  nothing  but  a  common  sailor.' 

The  man  of  business  drew  a  second  cheque,  tearing 
up  the  first  as  soon  as  he  had  done  so. 

*  But  where  did  you  learn  Italiiin?'  he  asked ;  '  and 


*^ 


-'■^'y  ■ 


356 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


IP 


how  did  you  pick  up  all  this  intimate  knowledge  of 
Elizabethan  England,  and  Spain,  and  Italy  ?' 

'  You  forget  that  was  all  in  the  manuscript,'  Arnold 
answered  simply. 

The  publisher  waved  his  hand  again.  'Twas  an 
impatient  wave.  There  was  really  no  dealing  with  a 
fellow  like  this,  who  told  a  lie  and  stuck  to  ii. 

*  Ah,  true,'  he  mused  reflectively,  with  the  same 
curious  smile.  *  Well,  Mr.  "VVilloughby,  I  should  say 
you  have  a  great  future  in  fiction  before  you.' 

Arnold  hardly  knew  whether  to  accept  that  remark 
as  a  compliment  or  otherwise. 

But  as  he  descended  the  publisher's  stairs  that 
morning,  he  had  got  rid  of  the  copyright  and  all 
property  and  interest  in  a  work  entitled  *  An  Eliza- 
bethan Seadog,'  to  Messrs.  Stanley  and  Lockhart, 
their  heirs  and  executors,  in  consideration  of  the  sum 
of  fifty  pounds  sterling. 

And  Mr.  Stanley  was  saying  to  Mr.  Lockhart  in  the 
privacy  of  the  counting-house : 

'  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Lockhart,  I  believe  we've 
got  hold  of  a  second  Rider  Haggard.  I  never  road 
anything  more  interesting  in  my  life  than  this  sailor- 
fellow's  narrative.  It  has  an  air  of  history  alxtnt  it 
that's  positively  astonishing.  Heaven  knows  where 
he  learned  to  write  such  English  as  that!  but  he 
writes  it  admirably/ 


•    :  -    :       CHAPTER  XXIV. 

AT?   ANGEL   FROM   THE   WEST. 

BuFUG  Mortimer  lay  stretched  at  full  length  on  the 
heather-clad  dome  of  a  Surrey  hill-top.     He  was  turn- 


K.    Hi-: 


AN  ANGEL  FROM  THE  WEST 


35; 


ing  lazily  over  the  pages  of  a  weekly  paper.  He 
passed  from  the  politics  to  the  social  '  middles,'  and 
from  the  middles  again  to  the  reviews  and  the  literary 
column.  It  was  dull,  deadly  dull,  the  self-laudatory 
communiquds  of  second-rate  amateurs.  His  eye  ran 
carelessly  through  the  items  of  news  and  the  hints  of 
forthcoming  works :  '  We  understand  that  the  article 
on  "Eichelieu  and  his  Contemporaries"  in  the 
current  number  of  the  South  Bnthh  Quarterly,  which 
is  attracting  so  much  attention  in  well-informed  circlcH 
at  the  present  moment,  is  from  the  facile  yet  learned 
pen  of  Mr.  J.  Anstruther  Maclaren,  the  well-known 
authority  on  the  age  of  the  Bourbons.'  —  *  Mrs. 
liotherham's  new  novel,  "My  Heart  and  His,"  will 
shortly  be  published  by  Messrs.  Rigby,  Short,  and 
(jo.  It  will  deal  with  the  vicissitudes  of  an  Italian 
gipsy  girl,  who  studies  medicine  at  Girton,  and  after- 
wards becomes  convinced  of  the  truths  of  Theosophy, 
the  principles  of  which  are  eloquently  defended  at 
some  length  by  the  accomplished  authoress.' — '  Mr. 
Edmund  Wilkes,  Q.C.,  denies  the  report  that  he  is  the 
author  of  that  clever  Society  sketch,  "  An  ArchbJHhop's 
Daughter-in-law,"  which  has  caused  so  mmU  amuMe- 
ment,  and  so  many  searchings  of  heart  in  high  ercle- 
siastical  and  legal  quarters  during  the  present  season. 
We  are  also  assured  there  is  no  good  ground  for 
attributing  the  work  to  the  wife  of  the  veteran  l)(;an 
of  Northborough,  whose  finished  literary  handicraft 
does  not  in  any  way  resemble  the  crude  iu\(\  u/»formo<i 
style  of  that  now  famous  story.  The  work  bears,  on 
the  contrary,  internal  traces  of  Xmmg  due  to  the 
sprightly  wit  of  a  very  young  lady,  acquainted  with 
the  clerical  society  of  a  northern  catbodral  Uisvn,  but 
little  at  home  iii  the  great  world  of  Jjondou,' — Xtuluf 


■l» 


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^■ 


Mortimer  almost  laid  down  the  paper  in  disgust. 
Better,  surely,  the  fellowship  of  the  eternal  hills,  the 
myriad  buzz  of  the  bees,  the  purple  heather,  than  the 
solicitous  echoes  of  this  provincial  gossip. 

But  just  as  he  was  going  to  fling  the  journal  down 
in  his  distaste,  his  eye  chanced  to  light  upon  a  single 
belated  paragraph,  wedged  in  between  two  others  near 
the  end  of  the  column :  *  Messrs.  Stanley  and  Lock- 
hart  will  publish  almost  immediately  a  new  and 
stirring  romance  of  the  Armada  period,  entitled, 
"  An  Elizabethan  Sea-dog,"  purporting  to  be  written 
by  one  John  Collingham,  a  Norfolk  sailor,  who  was 
imprisoned  in  Spain  by  the  Inquisition  for  refusing 
to  abjure  "  the  damnable  doctrine  of  her  Grace's 
supremacy."  It  is  announced  as  "translated  and 
edited  by  Arnold  Willoughby,"  and  is  described  in 
their  circular  as  being  one  of  the  most  thrilling  works 
of  adventure  published  since  the  beginning  of  the 
present  revived  taste  for  the  literature  of  romantic 
exploits.' 

In  a  moment  Kufus  Mortimer  had  jumped  up 
from  his  seat  ori  the  overblown  heather.  In  accord- 
ance with  his  piomise  to  Kathleen,  he  had  been  hunt- 
ing for  weeks  to  find  Arnold  Willoughby ;  and  now, 
by  pm:e  chance,  he  had  lighted  unawares  on  a  singular 
clue  to  his  rival's  whereabouts. 

Bufus  Mortimer  was  a  man  of  his  word.  Moreover, 
like  all  the  higher  natures,  he  was  raised  far  above 
the  petty  meanness  of  jealousy.  If  he  loved  Kathleen, 
he  could  not  help  desiring  to  do  whatever  would  please 
her,  even  though  it  were  that  hard  task — to  find  for 
her  sake  the  lover  who  was  to  supplant  him.  As  soon 
as  he  read  those  words,  he  had  but  one  thought  in  his 
mind — he  must  go  up  to  town  at  once  and  see  whetlK^r 


■I 


AN  ANGEL  FROM  THE   l.'/rST 


259 


Stanley   and  Lockhart  could   supply  him   with    tlie 
address  of  their  new  author. 

In  five  minutes  more  he  was  l)ack  at  his  lodgings, 
whither  he  had  come  down,  partly  for  rest  and 
change  after  his  fresh  disai)pointm(  nt,  partly  to  paint 
a  little  i)urple  gem  of  EngliHh  moorland  landscape  for 
an  American  Exhihition.  He  turned  to  his  Bradshaw 
eagerly.  An  up-train  wouM  he  due  in  twenty  minutes. 
It  was  sharp  work  to  catch  it,  for  his  rooms  on  the 
hill-top  lay  more  than  a  mile  from  the  station ;  hut  olT 
he  set  at  a  run,  so  eager  was  he  to  find  out  the  truth 
ahout  Arnold  Willoughby.  At  the  station  he  had  just 
time  to  despatch  a  hasty  telegram  up  to  town  to 
Kathleen — *Am  on  the  track  of  the  missing  man. 
"Will  wire  again  to-night.  Have  good  hopes  of  find- 
ing him. — KuFus  Mortimer  * — when  the  train  steamed 
in,  and  he  jumped  impetuously  into  a  first-class 
carriage. 

At  Waterloo  be  hailed  a  hansom,  and  drove  straight 
to  Stanley  and  Lockhart's.  He  sent  up  his  card,  and 
asked  if  he  might  see  one  of  the  partners.  The 
American  millionaire's  name  was  well  enough  known 
in  London  to  secure  him  at  once  a  favourable  reception. 
Mr.  Stanley  received  him  with  the  respect  justly  due 
to  so  many  hard  dollars.  He  came  provided  with  the 
universal  passport.  Rufus  Mortimer  went  straight  to 
the  business  in  hand.  Could  Mr.  Stanley  inform  him 
of  the  present  address  of  Mr.  Arnold  Willoughby,  the 
editor  of  this  new  book,  *  An  Elizabethan  Sea-dog  ?' 

Mr.  Stanley  hesitated. 

'Are  you  a  friend  of  Mr.  Willoughby's  ?'  he  asked, 
looking  out  over  his  spectacles.  *  For  you  know  he 
poses  as  a  sort  of  dark  horse.  He's  reticent  about 
himself,  and   we  don't  even  know  whether  Arnold 


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Willoughby's  his  real  name  or  a  pseudonym.     lie 
dresses  like  and  pretends  to  be  a  common  sailor.' 

*  Oh  yes,'  Mortimer  answered,  smilhig.  *  Wil- 
loughby's  his  own  name,  right  enough ;  and  he  is 
wliat  he  seems  to  be,  an  able-bodied  mariner.  But 
he's  a  very  remarkable  man  in  his  way,  for  all  that — 
a  painter,  a  reader,  extremely  well  informed,  and  in 
every  sense  a  gentleman.  There  are  no  flies  on 
Willoughby.' 

'  No  what  ?'  Mr.  Stanley  asked,  opening  his  eyes. 

'No  flies,'  Bufus  answered,  with  a  compassionate 
smile  for  English  dulness.  '  I  mean,  he's  fresh,  and 
clever,  and  original.* 

'  So  we  gathered,'  the  head  of  the  firm  replied. 
'  Well,  to  anybody  but  you,  Mr.  Mortimer,  we  would 
refuse  the  address ;  but  I  suppose  we  may  take  it  for 
granted  in  your  case  you  want  it  for  none  but 
purposes  which  Mr.  Willoughby  himself  would  ap- 
prove of.' 

And  he  smiled,  all  benignity. 

*  I  hope  so,'  Rufus  answered  good-humouredly.  '  I 
want  it,  first,  for  myself ;  and,  secondly,  for  a  person 
in  whom  I  may  venture  to  say  Mr.  Willoughby  is 
deeply  interested.' 

The  publisher  raised  his  eyebrows.  That  was  the 
very  worst  plea  Rufus  Mortimer  could  have  put  in ; 
for  when  a  man's  clearly  skulking  from  the  eyes  of 
the  world,  the  person  (presumably  a  lady)  who  is 
most  deeply  interested  in  him  is,  oftener  than  not,  the 
one  creature  on  earth  he's  most  anxious  to  hide  from. 
So  the  wise  man  hesitated. 

*  Well,  I  don't  know  whether  I  ought  to  tell  you,* 
he  said  at  last,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  '  but 
to  be  quite,  quite  frank  with  you,  we  don't  exactly 


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linovv  whether  we've  got  hib  real  address  or  not  our- 
selves, lie  has  his  proofs  post'd  1  »  him  at  a  small 
seafaring  coflfee-house,  somewhere  right  away  down  in 
the  far  East  End ;  and  that's  hardly  the  sort  of  place 
where  a  man  of  letters,  such  as  he  evidently  is,  would 
be  likely  to  be  lodging.' 

Buf  us  Mortimer  smiled  once  more. 

'  I  expect  it's  where  he  lodges,*  he  answered.  *  At 
Venice  he  used  to  beard  in  the  house  of  a  sort  of 
inferior  marine-stores  dealer.  He's  a  live  man,  is 
Willoughby;  he  doesn't  trouble  himself  much  about 
the  upholsteries  and  the  fripperies.' 

The  publisher,  still  half  unconvinced,  wrote  down 
the  address  on  a  slip  of  paper ;  and  Mo>-timer,  just 
thanking  him  for  it,  rushed  ofif  to  another  cab,  and 
hurried  away  at  full  speed  to  the  East  End  Go£fee- 
house. 

Fortunately,  Arnold  "Willoughby  was  in.  He  had 
little  to  go  out  for.  Mortimer  went  up  to  his  room,  a 
plain,  small  bedroom  on  the  second  floor,  very  simply 
furnished,  but  clean  and  comfortable.  He  was  taken 
aback  at  the  first  look  of  the  man. 

Arnold  seemed  thinner  than  at  Venice,  very  worn 
and  ill-looking.  But  he  started  up  at  the  sound  of 
Mortimer's  cheery  voice,  which  he  recognised  at  once 
with  its  scarcely  perceptible  tinge  of  pleasant  and 
cultivated  Pennsylvanian  accent.  Then  he  held  out 
his  left  hand. 

Mortimer  saw  for  himself  that  the  right  hung  half 
idle  by  his  side,  as  if  paralyzed. 

'  Why,  what  does  this  mean  ?'  he  asked  quickly. 

Arnold  smiled  in  reply,  and  grasped  his  friend's 
hand  warmly ;  though,  to  say  the  truth,  he  felt  not 
quite  at  his  ease  with  the  man  who  was  to  marry 


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Kathleen  Hasslegrave.  He  would  have  been  glad  in 
some  ways  to  be  spared  this  visit :  though,  now  it  was 
thrust  upon  him,  he  was  really  thankful  in  others 
that  he  was  to  know  the  truth,  and  to  put  himself 
once  more  en  rapport  with  Kathleen. 

*0h,  nothing  much,'  he  answered,  forcing  a  diffi- 
cult smile.  *I  got  crushed  in  an  iceberg  accident. 
Worse  calamities  happen  at  sea.  Though  it's 
maimed  my  painting  hand,  which  is  '/'.Iways  a  mis- 
fortune.' 

*  Is  it  serious  ?'  Mortimer  asked  with  interest. 

*  Well,  the  doctors  tell  me  it'll  never  be  good  for 
anything  much  again,'  Arnold  answerec"  bravely.  *  I 
can  learn  to  write  with  my  left,  of  course ;  but  I  must 
give  up  painting,  I'm  afraid,  altogether.'        -      - 

They  sat  and  talked  for  some  time  about  the  acci- 
dent and  how  it  had  happened ;  but  neither  of  them 
said  a  word  for  many  minutes  together  of  the  subject 
that  wrs  nearest  both  their  hearts  that  moment. 
Arnold  was  too  shy  and  reserved ;  while  as  for  Bufus 
Mortimer,  he  felt,  under  the  circumstances,  he  had  no 
right  to  betray  Kathleen  Hesslegrave's  confidence. 

At  last,  however,  Arnold  mustered  up  courage  to 
make  the  doubtful  plunge. 

*  I  believe  I  have  to  congratulate  you,'  he  said,  with 
a  rather  feeble  smile,  looking  hard  at  Mortimer. 

The  American  winced. 

*  To  con Tatulate  me  ?'  he  answered. .  *  I  don't  quite 
understand.    On  what,  and  why,  please  ?' 

Arnold  gazed  at  him,  imd  hesitated.  Ought  he  to 
go  on  or  hold  his  peace  ?  It  would  be  more  discreet, 
perhaps  even  more  honourable,  to  say  nothing  further, 
but,  having  once  begun,  he  must  get  to  the  bottom 
of  it. 


1^ 


'* : 


'-KV: 


AN  ANGEL  FROM  THE  WEST 


263 


*Well,  about  Miss  Hesslegrave,'  he  replied.  *I 
heard — that  is  to  say — I  understood  you  were  going 
to  be  married  to  her.  And  I'm  sure  I  don't  know 
any  man  in  the  world  more  altogether  worthy  of 
her.' 

Bufus  Mortimer  stared  at  him. 

*  Married  to  her !'  he  exclaimed.  *  Why,  who  on 
earth  told  you  that?  My  dear  fellow,  you're  mis- 
taken. I'm  sorry  to  say  there  isn't  one  word  of  truth 
in  it.' 

*  But  her  own  brother  told  me  so,*  Arnold  persisted, 
unable  to  disentangle  this  ravelled  skein. 

'  Her  own  brother !'  Mortimer  exclaimed.  *  What ! 
that  wretched  little  monkey  ?  He  told  you  this  lie  ? 
Why,  whenever  did  you  see  him  ?' 

*  About  six  or  eight  weeks  ago,'  Arnold  answered, 
growing  hot ;  *  up  here  in  London.  And  he  cer- 
tainly gave  me  to  understand  it  was  a  foregone  con- 
clusion.'   ^    "    ---:^-'?..  :-s  •/'"---■-■■•' J -i?-     '  \  ■'"  ■  I.-    .    -•.  .• 

*  What !  he  saw  you  six  or  eight  weeks  ago,  and  he 
never  told  Miss  Hesslegrave  ?'  Mortimer  cried,  justly 
angry,  and  forgetting,  in  his  surprise,  all  aoout  Kath- 
leen's secret.  *  I  see  what  he  did  that  for.  The 
selfish  little  wretch  !  How  mean  !  How  disgraceful 
of  him !' 

*  Why  should  he  tell  Miss  Hesslegrave  ?'  Arnold 
answered,  looking  hard  at  him.  *  Surely,  under  the 
circumstances,  it  would  be  best  she  should  see  and 
hear  nothing  more  of  me.' 

Bufus  Mortimer  hesitated.  He  loved  Kathleen  too 
well  not  to  desire  to  serve  her ;  and  he  felt  sure  Arnold 
was  labouring  under  some  profound  delusion.  But  he 
made  up  his  mind  that,,  under  the  circumstances,  it 
was  best  to  be  frank. 


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*  You're  mistaken/  he  replied.  *  Miss  Hesslegrave 
is  anxious  to  see  you  again,  in  order  to  clear  up  a 
most  serious  misapprehension.  To  tell  you  the  plain 
truth,  Willoughby,  that's  why  I'm  here  to-day.  I 
don't  know  what  the  misapprehension  itself  may  be,' 
he  added  hastily,  for  he  saw  from  a  faint  shade  which 
flitted  on  Arnold's  face  that  that  quick  and  sensitive 
nature  had  again  jumped  at  a  conclusion  adverse  to 
Kathleen.  *  She  hasn't  betrayed  your  confidence, 
whatever  it  may  be ;  and  if  I'm  betraying  hers  now,  it's 
only  because  I  see  there's  no  other  way  out  of  it.*  He 
paused  a  moment  and  wiped  his  brow ;  then  the  real 
man  came  out  in  one  of  those  rare  bursts  of  un- 
adulterated nature  which  men  seldom  permit  them- 
selves. *  You  don't  know  what  it  costs  me,'  he  said 
earnestly.    *You  don't  know  what  it  costs  me.' 

He  spoke  with  such  transparent  sincerity  and  depth 
of  feeling  that  Artiold  couldn't  help  sympathizing 
with  him.  And  yet,  even  so,  after  all  his  bitter 
experience,  he  couldn't  help  letting  the  thought  flit 
through  his  mind  all  the  Bame — was  Kathleen  still 
trying  to  catch  the  Earl,  but  keeping  a  second  string 
to  her  bow,  all  the  while,  in  the  rich  American  ? 

He  laid  his  hand  gently  on  Eufus  Mortimer's 
shoulder.  • 

'  My  dear  fellow,'  he  said  with  real  feeling,  *  I  can 
see  how  much  it  means  to  you*  I'm  sorry  indeed  if 
I  stand  between  you  and  her.  I  never  wished  to  do  so. 
There  has  indeed  been  an  error,  a  very  serious  error ; 
but  it  has  been  on  her  part,  not  on  mine.  She  would 
have  married  me  once,  I  know,  but  under  a  misappre- 
hension. If  she  knew  the  whole  truth  now,  she 
wouldn't  want  to  see  me  again.  An^"  even  if  she  did,' 
he  added,  holding  up  his  maimed  hand  pathetically-— 


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'  even  if  it  was  the  painter  she  wanted,  and  not— ali, 
no !  I  forgot — but  even  if  it  was  the  painter,  how 
could  she  take  him  now,  and  how  could  he  burden 
her  with  himself,  in  this  mangled  condition  ?  It  was 
always  a  wild  dream;  by  now  it's  an  impossible 
one.* 

'That's  for  her  to  judge,  Willoughby,'  Eufns 
Mortimer  answered,  with  earnestness.  '  Ah,  man, 
how  can  you  talk  so?  To  think  you  might  make  her 
yours  with  a  turn  of  your  hand,  and  won't — while  I ! 
— oh,  I'd  give  every  penny  I  possess  if  only  I  dare  hope 
for  her.  And  here  I  am,  pleading  with  you  on  her 
behalf  against  myself :  and  not  even  knowing  whether 
I'm  not  derogating  from  her  dignity  and  honour  by 
condescending  on  her  behalf  to  say  so  much  as  I  do  to 
you.' 

He  leaned  back  in  his  easy-chair  and  held  his  hand 
to  his  forehead.  For  a  moment  neither  spoke.  Then 
Arnold  began  slowly :    -  »         ^        , 

'  I  love  her  very  much,  Mortimer,'  he  said.  *  Once, 
I  loved  her  distractedly.  I  don't  think  I  could  speak 
about  her  to  any  other  man ;  certainly  not  to  any 
Englishman.  But  you  Americans  are  somehow  quite 
different  from  us  in  fibre.  I  can  say  things  to  you  I 
couldn't  possibly  say  to  any  fellow-countryman.  Now, 
this  is  what  I  feel :  she  could  be  happy  with  you.  I 
can  do  nothing  for  her  now.  I  must  just  live  out  my 
own  life  the  best  way  I  can  with  what  limbs  remain  to 
me.  It  would  be  useless  my  seeing  her.  It  would 
only  mean  a  painful  explanation;  and,  when  it  was 
over,  we  must  go  our  own  ways — and  in  the  end  she 
would  marry  you.' 

'  I  think  you  owe  her  that  explanation,  though,* 
Mortimer  answered  slowly.     *  Mind,  I'm  pleading  her 


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cause  with  you  against  myself — because  I  promised 
her  to  do  all  I  could  to  find  you ;  and  I  interpret  that 
promise  according  to  the  spirit  and  not  according  to 
the  letter.  But  you  owe  it  to  her  to  see  her.  You 
think  the  misunderstanding  was  on  her  side  alone; 
she  thinks  it  was  on  yours.  Very  well,  then;  that 
shows  there  is  still  something  to  be  cleared  up.  You 
must  see  her  and  clear  it.  For  even  if  she  didn't 
marry  you,  she  wouldn't  marry  me.  So  it's  no  use 
urging  that.  As  to  your  hand — no,  Willoughby,  you 
must  let  me  say  it — ^if  you  can't  support  her  yourself, 
what  are  a  few  thousands  to  me  ?  You  needn't  accept 
them;  I  could  make  them  over  to  her,  before  her 
marriage.  I  know  that's  not  the  way  things  are 
usually  done;  but  you  and  I  and  she  are  not  usual 
people.  Why  shouldn't  we  cast  overboard  conventions 
for  once,  and  act  like  three  rational  human  beings  ?' 

Arnold  Willoughby  grasped  his  hand.  He  couldn't 
speak  for  a  minute.  Something  rose  in  his  throat  and 
chol'.ed  him.  Here  at  least  was  one  man  whom  he 
could  trust— one  man  to  whom  earl  or  sailor  made  no 
difference.  He  was  almost  teiApted  in  the  heat  of  the 
momenf  to  confess  and  explain  everything. 

'Mortimer,*  he  said  at  last,  holding  his  friend's  hand 
in  his,  *  you  have  always  been  kindness  itself  to  me. 
I  will  answer  you  one  thing :  if  I  could  accept  that 
offer  from  any  man,  I  could  accept  it  from  you.  But 
I  couldn't,  I  couldn't.  Tor  the  sake  of  my  own  inde- 
'pendence,  I  once  gave  up  everything ;  how  could  I  go 
back  upon  it  now  in  order  to ' 

But  before  he  could  finish  his  sentence,  Eufus 
Mortimer  stared  at  him  in  one  of  those  strange  flashes 
of  intuition  which  come  oyer  women  often,  and  men 
sometimes,  at  critical  moments  of  profound  emotion. 


■.■~iMnin;»<,jiiK.K«ih,j^^ji^^an  «fj^.j(njeigA>.-^Hfe. 


i<N  ANGEL  FROM  THE  WEST 


267 


/Then  you  are  Lord  Axminster  !'  he  cried. 

*  Did  she  tell  you  so  ?*  Arnold  burst  out,  drawing 
his  hand  away  suddenly. 

*  No,  never.  Not  a  word,  not  a  breath,  not  a  hint 
of  it,*  Mortimer  answered  firmly.  'She  kept  your 
secret  well — as  I  will  keep  it.  I  see  it  all  now.  It 
comes  home  to  me  in  a  moment.  You  thought  it  was 
the  Eari  she  had  fallen  in  love  with,  not  the  sailor 
and  painter.  You  thought  she  would  only  care  for 
you  if  you  assumed  your  title.  My  dear  Willoughby, 
you're  mistaken,  if  ever  a  man  was.'  He  drew  a 
letter-case  from  his  pocket.  'Read  that,'  he  said 
earnestly.  '  The  circumstances  justify  me  in  breaking 
her  confidence  so  far.  I  do  it  for  her  own  sake. 
Heaven  knows  it  costs  me  dear  enough  to  do  it.* 

Arnold  Willoughby,  deeply  stirred,  read  it  through 
in  profound  silence.  It  was  the  letter  Kathleen  had 
written  in  answer  to  Eufus  Mortimer's  last  proposal. 
He  read  it  through,  every  line,  with  the  intensest 
emotion.  It  was  a  good  woman's  letter  if  ever  he  had 
seen  one.    It  stung  him  like  remorse. 

'If  I  had  never  met  him,  1  might  perhaps  have 
loved  you  dearly.  But  I  have  loved  one  man  too  well 
in  my  time  ever  to  love  a  second ;  and  whether  I  find 
him  again  or  not,  my  mind  is  quite  made  up:  I 
cannot  give  myself  to  any  other.  I  speak  to  you 
frankly,  because  from  the  very  first  you  have  known 
my  secret,  and  because  I  can  trust  and  respect  and 
like  you.  But  if  ever  I  meet  him  again,  I  shall  oe  his, 
and  his  only ;  and  his  only  I  must  be  if  I  never  again 
meet  him.' 

Arnold  Willoughby  handed  the  letter  back  to 
Tlortimer  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  He  felt  he  had 
wrong  ;d  her.    Whether  she  knew  he  wpiS .  an  EarJ 


fc*i;-»'J  ..  ir^-ji^'i-^m  m... 


■>;?^?wf  • 


pjj«Br'^wiS^i?*f?»'ai'f'^?!pti>i.)'tf^«>^ 


263 


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I  ^ 


m 


from  the  beginning  or  not,  he  believed  nov/  she  really 
loved  him  for  his  own  sake  alone,  and  could  never 
love  any  other  man.  She  was  not  mercenary ;  if  she 
were,  she  would  surely  have  accepted  so  brilliant  an 
offer  as  Rufus  Mortimer's.  She  was  not  fickle ;  if  she 
were,  she  would  never  have  written  such  a  letter  as 
that  about  a  man  who  had  apparently  disappeared 
from  her  horizon.    Arnold's  heart  was  touched  home. 

*  I  must  go  to  her,'  he  said  instantly.  *  I  must 
see  her,  and  set  this  right.  Where  is  she  now, 
Mortimer?* 

*  I'll  go  with  you,*  Mortimer  answered  quickly. — 

*  No ;  don't  be  afraid,'  he  added  with  a  bitter  smile. 

*  As  far  as  the  door,  I  mean.  Don't  suppose  I  want 
to  hamper  you  in  such  an  interview.* 

For  it  occurred  to  him  that  if  they  went  together  to 
the  door  in  a  cab,  he  might  be  allowed  to  pay  for  it, 
and  that  otherwise  Arnold  wouldn't  be  able  to  afford 
one.  But  Kathleen's  heart  must  not  be  kept  on  that 
stretch  for  ten  minutes  longer  than  was  absolutely 
necessary. 


.-T 


CHAPTER  XX\. 


THE   MEETINa. 


Arnold  Willoughby  arrived  at  K....ileen  Hessle- 
grave's  door  in  a  tremor  of  delight,  excitement,  and 
ecstasy.  During  all  those  long  months  that  he  had 
been  parted  from  her,  he  had  loved  her  with  his 
whole  soul — ^loved  the  memory  of  the  girl  he  had  once 
believed  her,  even  though  that  girl,  as  he  fancied, 
liever  really  existed,    And  pqw  thftt  h^v  l^tt^r  to 


..~•^*;^«lu'^-«a»«1r^t4tt'' 


il.fi.;v^  '"ST?"^ 


wm^ 


^i^mr^mw'f" 


rW" 


"«>"W 


mm0m 


THE  MEETING 


^ 


Eufus  Mortimer  had  once  more  reinstated  her  image 
in  his  mind  as  he  first  imagined  her,  his  love  came 
back  to  him  with  a  rush,  even  more  vividly  than  ever. 

For  had  he  not  now,  in  her  own  very  handwriting, 
the  assurance  that  she  loved  him — the  assmance  that 
she  was  his,  be  he  present  or  absent?  He  could 
approach  her  at  last  without  any  doubts  on  that  sub- 
ject. He  could  be  sure  of  her  answering  love,  her 
real  affection  for  himself,  whatever  might  be  the 
explanation  of  those  strange  expressions  Mrs.  Hessle- 
grave  had  attributed  to  her  that  afternoon  in  Venice. 

He  mounted  the  stairs  in  a  fever  of  joy  and  sup- 
pressed expectation.  Kathleen  sat  in  her  Httle  draw- 
ing-room, waiting  anxiously  for  the  promised  second 
telegram  from  Eufus  Mortimer.  A  knock  at  the  outer 
portal  of  the  flat  aroused  her,  all  tremulous.  Could 
that  be  the  telegraph-boy  ?  She  held  her  room  door 
half  ajar,  and  listened  for  the  voice. 

When  it  came,  it  sent  a  thrill  of  surprise,  delight, 
and  terror  down  her  spine  like  a  cold  wave.  *  Is  Miss 
Hesslegrave  in  ?'  it  said  ;  but  the  tone — the  tone  was 
surely  Arnold  Willoughby's ! 

'Miss  Hesslegrave  is  engaged  this  afternoon,  sir, 
and  can't  see  anybody,'  the  maid  answered  demurely. 
For  Kathleen  felt  too  agitated,  with  hope  and  sus- 
pense, for  receiving  visitors. 

*  I  think  she'll  see  me,'  Arnold  repb'ed  with  a  confi- 
dent smile;  and  while  the  girl  still  hesitated,  Kathleen's 
own.voice  broke  out  from  within  in  very  clear  tones : 

*  Let  the  gentleman  come  in,  Mary.' 

At  sound  of  her  voice,  a  strange  thrill  passed 
through  Arnold  Willoughby  in  turn ;  he  rushed  along 
the  passage  and  burst  into  the  sitting-room.  There 
etood  Kathleen,  pale  and  panting,  with  one  hand  on  ^ 


270 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


■h 


4. 


1"!  '¥ 


chair,  and  one  on  her  throbbing  heart — much  thinner 
and  whiter  than  he  had  known  her  of  old — much 
thinner  and  whiter,  but  not  one  whit  less  beautiful. 
In  that  first  tumult  of  wild  delight  at  his  love  restored, 
Arnold  Willoughby  darted  forward,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  would  have  clasped  her  in  his  arms  and 
kissed  her  as  she  stood  there. 

But  Kathleen,  looking  hard  at  him,  and  recognising 
in  a  second  how  ill  and  wasted  he  was,  with  his 
maimed  arm  hanging  loose  by  his  side  in  its  helpless- 
ness, yet  waved  him  back  from  her  at  once  with  an 
imperious  gesture. 

*  No,  no,'  she  said  proudly,  conquering  her  lov9  with 
an  effort.  " '  Not  now,  not  now,  Arnold !  Once  I 
would  have  let  you,  if  you  wished  ;  and  still  even  to- 
day— oh,  my  heart,  my  poor  heart — I  could  willingly 
let  you — if  it  were  not  for  that  barrier.  But  the 
barrier  is  there  even  now ;  and  until  you  understand 
everything — until  you  know  I  was  never  what  you 
have  thought  me  so  long — I  can't  possibly  allow  you. 
I  don't  want  you  to  trust  me  ;  I  don't  want  you  to  be- 
lieve me ;  I  want  you  to  know — to  know  and  under- 
stand ;  I  want  you  to  see  for  yourself  how  you  have 
wronged  me.' 

Arnold's  face  was  all  penitence.  As  she  spoke,  so 
fearlessly  and  so  proudly,  yet  with  such  an  under- 
current of  tenderness,  he  wondered  to  himself  how  he 
could  ever  have  doubted  her.  •    :% 

*0h,  Kathleen,'  he  cried,  standing  back  a  pace, 
and  stretching  out  his  hands,  and  calling  her  for  the 
first  time  to  her  face  by  the  name  she  had  always 
borne  in  his  thoughts  and  his  day-dreams,  *  don't  say 
that  to  me,  please.  Don't  crush  me  so  utterly.  I 
Imow  how  wrong  I  have  been;  I  know  how  much  J 


m 


■  rXtf. :!,'■< 


THE  MEETING 


Vft 


have  misjudged  you.  But  don't  visit  it  too  heavily 
upon  me.  I  have  suffered  for  it  myself ;  see,  see  how 
I  have  suffered  for  it  I — and  you  don't  know  yet  how 
difficult  it  was  for  me  to  resist  the  conclusion.  After 
what  I  was  told,  my  darling,  my  heart's  love,  I  could 
hardly  think  otherwise.* 

*  I  know  that,'  Kathleen  answered,  standing  opposite 
him  and  trembling,  with  a  fierce  desire  to  throw  her- 
self at  once  into  her  lover's  arms,  only  just  restrained 
by  a  due  sense  of»  her  womanly  dignity.  *  If  I  didn't 
know  it,  Mr.  Willoughby — or  Arnold,  if  you  will — I 
wouldn't  allow  you  to  come  here ;  I  wouldn't  allow  you  /' 
to  speak  to  me.  I  would  guard  my  pride  better.  It's 
because  I  know  it  that  I'm  going  to  explain  all  now 
to  you.  It's  because  I  know  it  that  I'm  going  to  lay 
my  heart  bare,  like  an  open  book  in  front  of  you. 
Before  I  hear  anything  else — before  I  even  ask  what 
that  means  '—and  she  glanced  at  his  useless  hand  with 
unspoken  distress — *  we  must  clear  up  this  mystery. 
Till  the  raisunJerstanding's  cleared,  we  can't  talk 
about  anything  else  as  we  ought  to  one  another.  And 
in  order  to  clear  it  up,  I  shall  tell  you — ^just  every- 
thing. I  shall  open  my  whole  soul.  I  shaU  tear  my 
heart  out  for  you.  There's  no  room  for  reserve 
between  us  two  to-day.  We  must  understand  one 
another,  once  for  all,  oh  Arnold,  my  Arnold,  now 
I've  found  you,  I've  found  you !' 

Arnold  gazed  at  her,  and  melted  with  shame  and 
remorse.  Her  passion  overcame  him.  How  could  he 
ever  for  one  moment  have  doubted  that  pure,  that 
queenly  soul  ?  But  then — Mrs.  Hesslegrave's  words ! 
that  dark  saying  about  the  earldom!  those  strange 
mysterious  hints  of  a  deliberate  conspiracy ! 

*  You  thought  I  knew  from  the  first  who  you  were  ?* 


272 


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\. 


I.'. 


Kathleen  began,  drawing  breath  and  facing  him 
boldly.  . 

'  I  thought  you  believed  from  the  first  I  was  Lord 
Axminster,*  Arnold  answered,  quite  frankly,  but  still 
refusing  to  commit  himself;  'and  I  thought  it  was 
through  that  belief  alone  that  you  first  permitted 
a  common  sailor  to  win  his  way  as  far  as  he  did,  if 
he  did,  into  your  affections.  But,  Kathleen,  I  won't 
think  so  nc  v ;  if  you  tell  me  you  didn't,  I'll  believe 
you  at  once ;  ind  if  you  tell  me  you  did,  but  that  you 
loved  me  for  myself,  though  you  took  me  for  ten  thou- 
sand times  over  an  Earl,  oh,  Kathleen,  I  will  believe 
you;  I  will  believe  you  and  love  you,  with  all  my 
heart  and  soul,  if  only  you'll  allow  me.* 

It  was  a  great  deal  for  Arnold  Willoughby,  with  his 
past  behind  him,  to  say;  but  it  wasn't  enough  for 
Kathleen.  She  was  still  unsatisfied.  She  stood 
before  him,  trembling  and  quivering  all  over  with 
love,  yet  just  waving  him  back  with  one  imperious 
hand  when  he  strove  to  draw  nearer  to  her. 

*  No,  no,'  she  answered,  holding  him  o£f  with  her 
queenly  gesture.  '  That's  not  what  I  want.  I  want 
plainly  to  clear  myself.  I  want  you  to  know,  to  be 
sure  and  certain,  beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt,  I 
was  not  what  you  took  me  for.  I  want  you  to  under- 
stand the  whole  real  truth.  I  want  you  to  see  for 
yourself  what  I  thought  of  you  first ;  I  want  you  to 
see  when  I  began  to  love  you — for  I  did  love  you, 
Arnold,  and  I  do  love  you  still — and  how  and  when  I 
first  discovered  your  real  name  and  personality.'  She 
moved  across  the  room  from  where  she  stood  to  a 
desk  in  the  corner.  'Bead  this,*  she  said  simply, 
taking  out  a  diary  and  handing  it  to  him.  'Begin 
there}  on  the  day  I  first  met  you  in  London.    Then 


^jMkdL^ 


-*»^^  w^'  ■ 


THE  MEETING 


273 


turn  on  to  these  pages  where  I  put  tliis  mark,  and 
read  straight  through  till  you  come  to  the  end — when 
you  went  away  from  Venice.  The  end  of  everything 
for  me — till  you  came  again  this  evening.' 

It  was  no  time  for  protestations.  Arnold  saw  she 
was  in  earnest.  He  took  the  l)ook  and  read.  Mean- 
while, Kathleen  sank  into  an  easy-chair  opposite,  and 
watched  his  face  eagerly  as  he  turned  over  the  pages. 

He  read  on  and  on  in  a  fever  of  delight.  He  r(3ad 
how  she  had  come  upon  him  in  Venice  in  Mortimer's 
gondola.  He  read  how  she  had  begun  to  like  him, 
in  spite  of  doubts  and  hesitations:  how  she  had 
wondered  whether  a  lady  ought  to  let  herself  grow  no 
fond  of  a  man  so  far  beneath  her  in  rank  and  station  : 
how  she  had  stifled  her  doubts  by  sayinj,-  to  herself 
he  had  genius  and  refinement  and  a  poet's  nature; 
he  was  a  gentleman,  after  all,  a  true  gentleman  at 
heart,  a  gentleman  of  the  truest  in  feelings  and 
manners.  Then  he  saw  how  the  evidences  of  her 
liking  grew  thicker  and  thicker  from  page  to  page, 
till  they  deepened  at  last  into  shame-faced  self-con- 
fessions of  maiden  love,  and  culmmated  in  the  end 
into  that  one  passionate  avowal,  *  Sailor  or  no  sailor, 
oh,  I  love  him,  I  love  him.  I  love  him  with  all  my 
heart ;  and  if  he  asks  me,  I  shall  accept  him.' 

When  he  came  to  that  page,  Kathleen  saw  by  the 
moisture  rising  thick  in  his  eyes  what  point  he  had 
reached.    He  looked  across  at  her  imploringly. 

*  Oh,  Kathleen,  I  may  ?'  he  cried,  trying  to  seize 
her  hand.    But  still  Kathleen  waved  him  back. 

*No,  not  yet,'  she  said  in  a  tone  half  relenting, 
half  stern.  *  Not  yet.  You  must  read  it  all  through. 
You  must  let  me  pj'ove  myself  innocent.' 

She  said  it  proudly  yet  tenderly,  for  she  knew  the 


■W: 


r     *' 


it:     h 


W 


274 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


proof  was  there.  And  after  all  she  had  suflfered,  she 
did  not  shrink  for  a  moment  from  letting  Arnold  so 
read  her  heart's  inmost  secret. 

He  read  on  and  on.  Then  came  at  last  that  day 
when  the  Canon  recognised  him  in  the  side-canal  by- 
San  Giovanni  e  Paolo.    Arnold  drew  a  deep  breath. 

*  It  was  he  who  found  me  out,  then  ?'  he  said,  for 
the  first  time  admitting  his  long-hidden  identity. 

*Yes,  it  was  he  who  found  you  out/  Kathleen 
answered,  leaning  forward.  *And  I  saw  at  once  he 
was  right;  for  I  had  half  suspected  it  myself,  of 
course,  from  those  words  of  yours  he  quoted.  And, 
Arnold,  do  you  know,  the  first  thought  that  crossed 
my  mind — for  I'm  a  woman,  and  have  my  prejudices 
— the  first  thought  was  this  :  "  Oh,  how  glad  I  am  to 
think  I  should  have  singled  him  out  for  myself,  out  of 
pure,  pure  love,  without  knowing  anything  of  him ; 
yet  that  he  should  turn  out  in  the  end  to  be  so  great  a 
gentleman  of  so  ancient  a  lineage."  And  the  second 
thing  that  struck  me  was  this  :  *  Oh,  how  sorry  I  am, 
after  all,  I  should  have  surprised  his  secret ;  for  he 
wished  to  keep  it  from  me ;  he  wished  perhaps  to  sur- 
prise me ;  and  it  may  grieve  him  that  I  should  have 
learnt  it  like  this,  prematurely."  But  I  never  knew 
then  what  misery  it  was  to  bring  upon  me.'- 

'Kathleen,'  the  yoimg  man  cried  imploringly,  *I 
must  I  I  must  this  time  !'  and  he  stretched  his  arms 
out  to  her. 

*  No,*  Kathleen  cried,  still  waving  him  back,  but 
flushing  rosy  red ;  *  I  am  not  yet  absolved.  You  must 
read  td  the  very  end.  You  must  know  the  whole  truth 
of  it.' 

Again  Arnold  read  on ;  for  Kathleen  had  written  at 
great  length  the  history  of  that  day,  that  terrible  day. 


Ml 


THE  MEETING 


275 


much  blotted  with  tears  on  the  pages  of  her  diary, 
when  the  Canon  went  away,  and  her  mother  *  spoiled 
all  *  with  Arnold  Willoughby.  When  he  came  to  that 
heart-broken  cry  of  a  wounded  spirit,  Arnold  rose  from 
his  place ;  he  could  contain  himself  no  longer.  With 
tears  in  his  eyes,  he  sprang  towards  her  eagerly. 
This  time,  at  last,  Kathleen  did  not  prevent  him. 

*  Am  I  absolved  ?'  she  murmured  low,  as  he  caught 
her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

And  Arnold,  clasping  her  tight,  made  answer 
through  his  tears : 

*  My  darling,  my  darling,  it's  I,  not  you,  who  stand 
in  need  of  absolution.  I  have  cruelly  wronged  you. 
I  can  never  forgive  myself  for  it.' 

*  But  I  can  forgive  you,'  Kathleen  murmured,  nest- 
ling dose  to  him. 

For  somt  minutes  they  sat  there,  hand  in  hand, 
supremely  happy.  They  had  no  need  for  words  in  that 
more  eloquent  silence.  Then  Arnold  spoke  again,  very 
sadly,  with  a  sudden  reminder  of  all  that  had  hap- 
pened meanwhile : 

'  But,  Kathleen,  even  now,  I  ought  never  to  have 
spoken  to  you.  This  is  only  to  ease  our  souls.  Things 
are  still  where  they  were  for  every  other  purpose. 
My  darling,  how  am  I  to  tell  you  it  ?  I  can  never 
marry  you  now.  I  have  only  just  recovered  you,  to 
lose  you  again  instantly.*  ,    . 

Kathleen  held  his  hand  in  hers  still. 

*  Why  so,  dear  ?'  she  asked,  too  serenely  joyous  now 
(as  is  a  woman's  wont),  at  her  love  recovered,  to  trouble 
her  mind  much  about  such  enigmatic  sayings. 

*  Because,*  Arnold  cried,  *  I  have  nothmg  to  marry 
you  with ;  and  this  maimed  hand — ^it  was  crushed  in 
an  iceberg  accident  this  summer — ^1*11  tell  you  all 


ays 


AT  MARKET  VALVE 


about  it  by-and-by — makes  it  more  impossible  than 
ever  for  me  to  earn  a  livelihood.  Oh,  Kathleen,  if  I 
hadn't  been  carried  away  by  my  feelings,  and  by  what 
that  dear  good  fellow  Mortimer  told  me — he  showed 
me  your  letter — I  would  never  have  come  back  like 
this  to  see  you  without  some  previous  explanation.  I 
would  have  written  to  tell  you  beforehand  how  hope- 
less it  all  was,  how  helpless  a  creature  was  coming 
home  to  claim  you.' 

*  Then,  I'm  glad  they  did  carry  you  away,'  Kathleen 
answered,  smiling ;  *  for  I'd  ten  thousand  times  rather 
see  you  yourself,  Arnold,  now  everything's  cleared  up, 
than  any  number  of  letters.' 

*  But  everything's  not  cleared  up  ;  that's  the  worst 
of  it,'  Arnold  answered  somewhat  gloomily.  '  At  least 
as  far  as  I'm  concerned,'  he  went  on  in  haste,  for  he 
saw  a  dark  shadow  pass  over  Kathleen's  sweet  face. 
*  I  mean,  I'm  afraid  I'm  misleading  you  myself  now. 
You  think,  dear  Kathleen,  the  man  who  has  come 
home  to  you  is  pn  English  peer;  practically  and 
financially,  he's  notuing  of  the  sort.  He's  a  sailor  at 
best,  or  not  even  a  sailor,  but  the  m  ^rrst  bare  wreck 
of  one.  Here,  a  sheer  hulk,  stands  Arnold  Wil- 
loughby.  You  probably  imagine  I  got  rid  of  my 
position  and  masqueraded  in  seamen's  clothes  out  of 
pure,  pure  fu  i,  only  just  to  try  you.  I  did  nothing 
of  the  sort,  i  y  darling.  I  renounced  my  birthright, 
once  and  for  ever,  partly  on  conscientious  grounds, 
and  partly  on  grounds  of  personal  dignity.  I  may 
have  done  right ;  I  may  have  done  wrong ;  but,  at  any 
rate,  all  that's  long  since  irrevocable.  It's  past  and 
gone  now,  and  can  never  be  reconsidered.  It's  a 
closed  chapter.  I  was  once  an  Earl:  I  am  an  Earl^ 
no  longer.    The  man  who  asks  you — who  dare  hardly 


THE  MEETING 


277 


ask  you — for  your  love  to-day,  is,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes,  mere  Arnold  Willoughby,  a  common  sailor, 
unfit  for  work,  and  an  artist  too  hopelessly  maimed 
for  any  further  painting.  In  short,  a  man  without 
fixed  occupation  or  means  of  livelihood.* 

Kathleen  clung  to  his.  hand.  *  I  knew  as  much 
already,*  she  answered  bravely,  smoothing  it  with  her 
own.  *  That  is  to  say,  at  least,  I  knew  from  the  day 
you  went  away  from  Venice,  and  still  more  from  the 
day  when  your  cousin's  claim  was  allowed  to  hold 
good  by  the  House  of  Lord.:,  that  you  had  relinquished 
once  for  all  your  right  to  the  peerage.  I  knew  a  man 
so  just  and  good  as  you  are  would  never  allow  your 
cousin  to  assume  the  title  as  his  own,  and  then  rob 
him  again  of  it.  I  knew  that  if  ever  you  came  back 
to  me,  it  would  be  as  plain  Arnold  Willoughby,  fight- 
ing your  own  battle  on  equal  terms  against  the  world ; 
and,  Arnold,  now  you're*  here,  I  don't  care  a  pin  on 
■•vhat  terms  or  under  what  name  you  come ;  it's 
anough  for  me  to  have  you  here  again  with  me  !' 

*  Thank  you,  Kathleen,'  Arnold  said  very  low,  with  a 
thrill  of  deep  joy.    '  My  darling,  you're  too  good  to  me.' 

*  But  that's  not  all,'  Kathleen  went  on  with  swim- 
ming eyes.  'Do  you  know,  Arnold,  while  you  were 
away,  what  I  wanted  you  to  come  back  for  most  was 
that  I  might  set  myself  right  with  you ;  might  make 
you  admit  I  wasn't  ever  what  you  thought  me ;  might 
justify  my  womanhood'.  -■'^  you ;  might  be  myself  once 
more  to  you.  But  see  what  a  woman  I  am,  after  all ! 
Now  you're  here,  oh,  my  darling,  it  isn't  that  that  I 
think  about,  nor  even  whether  or  not  you'll  ever  be  able 
to  marry  me  ;  all  I  think  of  is  simply  this— how  sweet 
and  delightful  and  heavenly  it  is  to  have  you  here 
again  by  my  side  to  talk  to.' 


278 


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m 


L- 


5;  / 


T5.  fV.. 


She  gazed  at  him  with  pure  love  in  those  earnest 
big  eyes  of  hers.    Arnold  melted  with  joy. 

*You  speak  like  a  true  good  woman,  darling,*  he 
answered  in  a  penitent  voice.     *  And  now  I  hear  you     '  >^ 
speak  BO,  I  wonder  to  myself  how  on  earth  I  could  ever     .  ; 
have  had  the  heart  to  doubt  you.* 

So  they  sat  and  talked.    One  hour  like  that  was 
well  worth  those  two  years  of  solitude  and  misery* 


CHAPTER  XX7I. 

A  QUESTION  OP  AUTHORSHIP. 

And  now  that  all  was  over,  and  her  Arnold  had  come 
home  to  her,  Kathleen  Hesslegrave  felt  as  if  the  rest 
mattered  little.  He  was  back ;  he  knew  all ;  he  saw 
all ;  he  understood  all ;  he  loved  her  once  again  far 
more  dearly  than  ever.  Woman-like,  she  was  more 
than  satisfied  to  have  her  lover  by  her  side ;  all  else 
was  to  her  a  mere  question  of  detail. 

And  yet  the  problem  for  Arnold  was  by  no  means 
solved.  He  had  no  way  as  yet  of  earning  his  own 
living ;  still  loss  had  he  any  way  of  earning  a  living 
for  Kathleen.  Kathleen  herself,  mdeed,  happy  enough 
to  have  found  her  sailor  again,  would  have  been  glad 
to  marry  him  as  he  stood,  maimed  hand  and  all,  and 
to  have  worked  at  her  art  for  him,  as  she  had  long 
worked  for  Eeggie ;  but  that,  of  course,  Arnold  could 
never  have  dreamed  of.  It  would  have  been  grotesque 
to  give  up  the  Axminster  revenues  on  conscientious 
grounds,  and  then  allow  himself  to  be  supported  by  a 
woman's  labour.  Rufus  Mortimer,  too,  ever  generous 
and  ever  chivalrous,  would  willingly  have  done  any- 


A  QUESTION  OF  A  UTHORSHIP 


279 


■i- 


thing  in  his  power  to  help  them.  But  such  help  as 
that  also  Arnold  felt  to  he  impossible.  He  must  fight 
out  the  battle  of  life  on  his  own  account  to  the  bitter 
end ;  and  though  this  l&st  misfortune  of  his  crushed 
hand  was  an  accident  that  might  have  happened  to 
any  sailor  any  day,  it  made  him  feel  none  the  less 
that  painful  consciousness  he  had  often  felt  before,  of 
his  own  Irferiority  and  comparative  inability  to  do  for 
himself  what  he  saw  so  many  of  his  kind  doing  round 
him  on  every  side  without  apparent  effort.  He  didn't 
care  to  acknowledge  himself  a  human  failure. 

Of  course,  he  had  the  fifty  pounds  he  had  received 
for  his  translation  of  the  Italian  manuscript ;  but  even 
Arnold  Willoughby  couldn't  live  on  fifty  pounds  for 
ever,  though,  no  doubt,  he  could  make  it  go  at  least 
as  far  as  anyone  else  of  his  class  could.  And  it  was 
only  a  stray  windfall,  not  a  means  of  livelihood.  What 
Arnold  wanted,  now  the  sea  was  shut  igainst  him, 
and  painting  most  difficult,  was  some  alternative  way 
of  earning  money  for  himself,  and,  if  possible,  for 
Kathleen.  As  to  how  he  could  do  that,  he  had  for 
the  moment  no  idea ;  he  merely  straggled  on  upon  his 
fifty  pounds,  spreading  it  out  as  thin  as  fifty  pounds 
can  be  made  to  spread  nowadays  in  this  crowded 
Britain  of  ours. 

But  if  this  problem  caused  anxiety  to  Arnold 
Willoughby,  it  caused  at  least  as  much  more  to  Eufus 
Mortimer.  As  a  rule,  people  who  have  never  known 
want  themselves  realize  but  vaguely  the  struggles  and 
hardships  of  others  who  stand  face  to  face  with  it. 
They  have  an  easy  formula — *  Lazy  beggars !' — which 
covers  for  their  minds  all  possible  grounds  of  failure 
or  misfortune  in  other  people.  (Though  they  are  not 
themselves  always  so  remarkable  for  their  industry,) 


Wi 


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280 


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■:  * 


i.   A 


But  Rufus  Mortimer,  with  his  delicately  sensitive 
American  nature— as  sensitive  in  its  way  as  Arnold's 
own — understood  to  the  full  the  difficulties  of  the 
case;  and  having  made  himself  responsible  to  some 
extent  for  Arnold's  and  Kathleen's  happiness  by 
bringing  them  together  again,  gave  himself  no  little 
trouble,  now  that  matter  was  arranged,  to  seek  some 
suitable  work  in  life  for  Arnold. 

This,  however,  as  it  turned  out,  was  no  easy  matter. 
Even  backed  up  by  Rufus  Mortimer's  influence,  Arnold 
found  there  were  few  posts  in  life  he  could  now 
adequately  fill;  while  the  same  moral  scruples  that 
had  made  him.  in  the  first  instance  renounce  altogether 
the  Axminster  property  continued  to  prevent  his  ac- 
cepting any  post  that  he  did  not  consider  an  honest 
and  useful  one.  It  occurred  to  Mortimer,  therefore, 
one  day  when  he  met  Reggie  on  Kathleen's  doorstep, 
and,  entering,  found  Kathleen  herself  with  every  sign 
of  recent  tears,  that  one  of  the  first  ways  of  helping 
the  young  couple  would  be  the  indirect  one  of  getting 
rid  of  Reggie.  He  suspected  that  young  gentleman  of 
being  a  perpetual  drain  upon  Kathleen's  resources, 
and  he  knew  him  to  have  certainly  no  such  conscien- 
tious scruples.  So,  after  a  little  brief  telegraphic 
communication  with  his  firm  in  America,  he  sent  one 
morning  for  Reggie  himself,  *  on  important  business  * ; 
and  Reggie,  delighted  by  anticipation  at  the  phrase, 
put  on  his  best  necktie  and  his  onyx  links,  and  drove 
round  (in  a  hansom)  to  Mortimer's  house  in  Great 
Stanhope  Street. 

Mortimer  plunged  at  once  into  the  midst  of  affairs. 

*  Suppose  you  were  to  get  a  post  of  three  hundred 
and  fifty  a  year  -  America,  would  you  take  it  ?*  he 
inquired. 


A!l 


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^^1!^:^ 


A  QUESTION  OF  A  UTIIORSHIP 


2S1 


1 


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Reggie  brightened  at  the  suggestion. 

*  Pounds,  not  dollars,  of  course  ?'  he  answered  with 
characteristic  caution,  for  where  money  was  concerned, 
Reggie's  mind  was  pure  intellect. 

Rufus  Mortimer  nodded. 

*  Yes,  pounds,  not  dollars,'  he  said.  *  A  clerk's  post 
in  my  place  in  the  States ;  railway  engineering  works, 
you  know.    We  control  the  business.' 

*  It  might  suit  me,'  Reggie  answered  with  great  de- 
liberation, impressed  with  the  undesirability  of  letting 
himself  go  too  cheap.  *  Three  hundred  and  fifty ;  pr, 
say,  four  hundred.' 

*I  beg  your  pardon,'  Rufus  Mortimer  interposed 
with  bland  decision.  '  I  said  three  hundred  and  fifty.  . 
I  did  not  say  four  hundred.  And  the  questions  before 
the  house  arn  simply  these  two — first,  whether  you 
care  to  accept  such  a  post  or  not;  and,  second, 
whether  I  shall  find  you're  qualified  to  accept  it.'         ^ 

*  Oh,  I  see,'  Reggie  answered,  taken  aback ;  for  he 
had  not  yet  met  Rufus  Mortimer  in  this  his  alter- 
native character  as  the  stern  capitalist.  'Where- 
abouts is  your  place?  So  much  depends  upon  the 
locality.* 

*  It's  in  Philadelphia,'  Mortimer  answered,  smiling. 
He  could  see  at  a  glance  Reggie  was  hesitating  as  to 

whether  he  could  tear  himself  away  from  the  Gaiety, 
and  the  dear  boys,  and  the  gross  mud-honey  of  town 
in  general,  to  emigrate  to  America. 

Reggie  held  his  peace  for  a  moment.  He  was  calcu- 
lating the  pros  and  cons  of  the  question  at  issue.  It 
spelt  expatriation,  of  course ;  that  he  recognised  at 
once;  so  far  from  the  theatres,  the  racecourses,  the 
Park,  the  dear  boys  of  the  Tivoli,  and  Charlie  Owen. 
But,  still,  he  was  young,  and  he  would  always  have 


-:^i 


^^s 


282 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


Florrie.    Perhaps  there  might  be  *  life '  even  in  Phila- 
delphia. 

*  Is  it  a  big  town?'  he  asked  dubiously,  for  his 
primsBval  notions  of  American  geography  were  dis- 
tinctly hazy. 

'  The  third  biggest  in  the  Union,'  Mortimer 
answered,  eyeing  him  hard. 

*In  the  what?'  Keggie  repeated,  somewhat  stag- 
gered at  the  sound  ;  visions  of  some  huge  workhouse 
rose  dimly  in  the  air  before  his  mental  view. 

*.In  the  United  States,*  Mortimer  answered  with  a 
compassionate  smile.  *In  America,  if  it  comes  to 
that.  The  third  biggest  in  America,.  About  three- 
quarters  the  size  of  Paris.  'Will  a  population  of  a 
million  afford  scope  enough  for  you?' 

*  It  sounds  well,*  Eeggie  admitted.  *  And  I  suppose 
there  are  amusements  there— something  to  occupy  a 
fellow's  mind  in  his  spare  time  ?  or  else  I  don't  put 
much  stock  in  it.* 

*  I  think  the  resources  of  Philadelphia  will  be  equal 
to  amusing  you,'  Mortimer  answered  grimly.  *  It*s  a 
decent-sized  village.'  He  didn't  dwell  much  upon  the 
converse  fact  that  Eeggie  would  have  to  work  for  his 
three  hundred  and  fifty.  *  My  people  in  America  will 
show  him  all  that  soon  enough,'  he  thought.  *  The 
great  thing  just  now  is  to  get  him  well  out  of  England, 
by  hook  or  by  crook,  and  leave  the  way  clear  for  that 
angel  and  Willoughby.' 

For  Eufus  Mortimer,  having  once  espoused  Arnold 
Willoughby's  cause,  was  almost  as  anxious  to  see  him 
satisfactorily  settled  in  life  as  if  it  had  been  his  own 
love-afifairs  he  was  working  for,  not  his  most  dangerous 
rival's. 

The  offer  was  a  tempting  one.    After  a  little  hum* 


•.■.-.*i 


"vvS 


A  QUESTION  OF  AUTHORSHIP 


a83 


ming  and  hawing,  and  some  explanation  by  Mortimer 
of  the  duties  of  the  ituation — the  last  thing  on  earth 
that  Eeggie  himself  would  ever  have  troubled  his  head 
about  under  the  circumstances — the  young  man  about 
town  at  last  consented  to  accept  the  post  offered  to 
him,  and  to  ship  himself  forthwith  from  his  native 
land,  with  Florrie  in  tow,  at  Eufus  Mortimer's 
expense,  by  an  early  steamer. 

*  A  town  of  a  million  people,'  he  observed  to  Florrie, 
*  must  have  decent  amusements,  even  in  America.' 

And  now  that  that  prime  encumbrance  was  clear 
out  of  the  way,  Mortimer's  next  desire  was  to  find 
something  to  do  for  Arnold,  though  Arnold  was 
certainly  a  most  difficult  man  to  help  in  the  matter 
of  an  appointment.  That  horrid  conscience  of  his 
was  always  coming  in  to  interfere  with  everything. 
Mortimer  and  Kathleen  had  ventured  to  suggest, 
indeed,  that  under  these  altered  circumstances,  when 
his  hand  made  it  almost  impossible  for  him  to  get 
work  of  any  sort,  he  should  disclose  his  personality 
to  the  new  Lord  Axminster,  and  accept  some  small 
allowance  out  of  the  Membury  Castle  property.  But 
against  that  suggestion  Arnold  stood  quite  firm. 

*  No,  no,'  he  said ;  *  I  may  live  or  I  may  starve ;  but 
I  won't  go  back  upon  my  whole  life  and  principles.  I 
gave  up  my  property  in  order  that  I  might  live  by  my 
own  exertions ;  and  by  my  own  exertions  I  will  live,  or 
go  to  the  wall  manfully.  I  don't  demand  now  that  I 
should  earn  my  livelihood  by  manual  labour,  as  I 
once  desired  to  do.  Under  these  altered  conditions, 
having  lost  the  use  of  my  hand  in  the  pursuit  of  an 
honest  trade  for  the  benefit  of  humanity,  I'm  justified, 
I  believe,  in  earning  my  livelihood  in  any  way  that 
my  fellow-creatures  are  willing  to  pay  me  for;  and  I'lJ 


384 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


take  in  future  any  decent  work  that  such  a  maimed 
being  as  myself  is  fitted  for.  But  I  won't  come  down 
upon  my  cousin  Algy.  It  wouldn't  be  fair ;  it 
wouldn't  be  right ;  it  wouldn't  be  consistent ;  it 
wouldn't  be  honest.  I'm  dead  by  law ;  dead  by  the 
decision  of  the  highest  court  in  the  kingdom;  and 
dead  I  will  remain  for  all  legal  purposes.  Algy  has 
succeeded  to  the  title  and  estates  in  that  belief,  which 
I  have  not  only  permitted  him  to  hold,  but  haye  de- 
liberately fostered.  For  myself  and  all  who  come 
after  me,  I  have  definitely  got  rid  of  my  position  as  a 
peer,  and  have  chosen  to  become  a  common  sailor.  If 
I  were  to  burst  in  upon  Algy  now  with  proof  of  my 
prior  claim,  I  would  upset  and  destroy  his  peace  of 
mind  ;  make  him  doubt  for  the  position  and  prospects 
of  his  children ;  and  burden  him  with  a  sense  of  inse- 
curity in  his  tenure  which  I  have  no  right  in  the 
world  to  disturb  his  Ufe  with.  When  once  I  did  it,  I 
did  it  once  for  all ;  to  go  back  upon  it  now  would  be 
both  cruel  and  cowardly.* 

*  You're  right,'  Kathleen  cried,  holding  his  hand  in 
her  own.  *  I  see  you're  right,  my  darling ;  and  if  ever 
I  marry  you,  I  will  marry  you  clearly  on  that  under- 
standing, that  you  are  and  always  will  be  plain  Arnold 
Willoughby.' 

So  Kufus  Mortimer  could  do  nothing  but  watch  and 
wait.  Meanwhile,  Arnold  went  round  London  at  the 
pitiful  task  of  answering  advertisements  for  clerks  and 
other  small  posts,  and  seeking  in  vain  for  some  light 
employment.  Winter  was  drawing  on ;  and  it  became 
clearer  and  clearer  each  day  to  Mortimer  that  in 
Arnold's  present  state  of  health  he  ought,  if  possible, 
to  spend  the  coldest  months  in  the  South  of  Europe. 
But  how  get  him  to  do  it  ?    That  was  now  the  puzzle. 


'^^ixrsicai&diias* 


•'•^•'''■W^iWJir*'* 


A  QUESTION  OF  AUTHORSHIP 


285 


Mortimer  was  half  afraid  he  had  only  rescued  Kath- 
leen's lover,  and  brought  them  together  again  in  peace, 
in  order  to  see  him  die  with  his  first  winter  in 
England.  And  it  was  no  use  to  urge  upon  him  the 
acceptance  of  a  temporary  loan,  or  even  to  ask  him  to 
go  abroad  on  the  strength  of  that  fifty  pounds  ;  for,  as 
matters  now  stood,  Arnold  was  so  anxious  to  husband 
his  funds  to  the  utmost  and  to  look  out  for  futurri  work, 
that  nothing  would  induce  him  to  move  away  from 
London .  .  * 

While  things  were  in  this  condition,  Rufus  was 
startled  one  day,  as  he  sat  in  his  padded  armchair  in 
a  West-End  club,  reading  a  weekly  paper,  to  see 
Arnold  Willoughby's  name  staring  him  full  in  the 
face  from  every  part  of  a  two-column  article.  He 
fixed  his  eyes  on  the  floating  words  that  seemed  to 
dance  before  his  sight.  'If  this  is  a  first  attempt,' 
the  reviewer  said,  *we  must  congratulate  Mr.  Wil- 
loughby  upon  a  most  brilliant  d«^but  in  the  art  of 
fiction.'  And  again  :  •  *  We  know  not  whether  the 
name  of  "  Arnold  Willoughby  "  is  the  writer's  real 
designation,  or  a  mere  nom  de  guerre ;  but  in  any  case 
we  can  predict  for  the  entertaining  author  of  "An 
Elizabethan  Seadog  "  a  brilliant  career  as  a  writer  of 
the  new  romance  of  history.' — *  Mr.  Willoughby's 
style  is  careful  and  polished;  his  knowledge  of  the 
dialect  of  the  sea  is  "  peculiar  and  extensive  ";  while 
his  fertility  of  invention  is  really  something  stupen- 
dous. We  doubt,  indeed,  whether  any  Elizabethan 
sailor  of  actual  life  could  ever  have  described  his 
Spanish  adventures  in  such  graphic  and  admirable 
language  as  Mr.  Willoughby  puts  into  the  mouth  of 
his  imaginary  hero ;  but  that  is  a  trivial  blemish : 
literature  is  literature :  as  long  as  the  narrative  im- 


1' 


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AT  MARKET  VALUE 


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poses  upon  the  reader  for  the  moment,  ^hich  it 
undoubtedly  does,  we  are  ready  to  overlook  the  un- 
historical  character  of  the  thrilling  details,  and  the 
obvious  improbability  that  such  a  person  as  Master 
John  Collingham  of  Holt  in  Norfolk  would  have  been 
able  to  address  the  Council  of  Ten  with  such  perfect 
fluency  in  "  very  choice  Italian."  ' 

Bufus  Mortimer  laid  down  the  paper  in  a  tumult  of 
delight.  Here  at  last  he  saw  a  chance  for  the  solution 
of  the  problem  of  Arnold's  future.  Though  art  had 
failed  him,  he  might  live  by  literature.  To  be  sure, 
one  swallow  doesn't  make  a  summer,  nor  one  good 
review  (alas!)  the  fortune  of  a  volume.  But  Bufus 
Mortimer  didn't  know  that ;  and  he  felt  sure  in  his 
heart  that  a  mun  who  could  write  so  as  to  merit  such 
praise  from  one  of  the  most  notoriously  critical  of 
modern  organs,  must  certainly  be  able  to  make  a 
living  by  his  pen,  even  if  he  had  only  a  left  hand 
left  wherewith  to  wield  it.  So  off  he  rushed  at 
once  in  high  glee  to  Arnold  Willoughby's,  only 
stopping  on  the  way  to  buy  a  copy  of  the  review  at 
the  railway  bookstall  in  the  nearest  underground 
station. 

When  he  reached  Arnold's  lodgings,  now  removed 
much  further  West,  near  Kathleen  Hesslegrave's 
rooms,  he  hurried  upstairs  in  a  fervour  of  good  spirits, 
quite  rejoiced  to  be  the  first  to  bring  such  happy 
tidings.  Arnold  read  the  review  hastily;  then  he 
looked  up  at  Mortimer,  who  stood  expectant  by ;  and 
his  face  grew  almost  comical  in  its  despair  and  de- 
spondency. 

'  Oh,  this  is  dreadful !'  he  exclaimed  under  his 
breath.    *  Dreadful,  dreadful,  dreadful !' 

'Dreadful  ?'  Mortimer  interposed,  quite  taken  aback. 


i^& 


]  iliiiilirii 


w 


A  QUESTION  OF  AUTHORSHIP 


287 


*  Why,  Willoughby,  I  was  delighted  to  be  the  first  to 
bring  it  to  you.  I  thought  you'd  be  so  awfully  glad 
to  see  it.  What  on  earth  do  you  disapprove  of  ?  It's 
all  80  favourable.' 

Did  the  man  expect  mere  fulsome  adulation? 

*  Favourable?  Oh  yes,'  Arnold  answered;  'it's 
favourable  enough,  for  that  matter :  but  just  look 
how  they  treat  it !  In  spite  of  my  repeated  and  re- 
iterated statement  that  the  manuscript  was  a  genuine 
Elizabethan  document,  they  insist  on  speaking  of  it  as 
an  original  romance,  and  attributing  the  authorship 
to  me,  who  only  translated  it.  They  doubt  my  word 
about  it  I'  * 

'But  that  doesn't  matter  much,'  Mortimer  cried, 
severely  practical,  '  as  long  as  attention  is  drawn  to 
the  work.  It'll  make  the  book  sell ;  and  if  ever  you 
should  want  to  write  anything  else  on  your  own 
account,  it'll  give  you  a  better  start  and  secure  you 
attention.* 

'I  don't  want  attention  under  false  pretences,' 
Arnold  retorted.  'One  doesn't  like  to  be  doubted, 
and  one  doesn't  want  to  get  credit  for  work  one  hasn't 
done.  I  should  hate  to  be  praised  so.  It's  only  the 
translation  that's  mine.  I've  none  of  these  imagina- 
tive gifts  the  critic  credits  me  with.  Indeed,  I've  half 
a  mind  to  sit  down  this  minute  to  write  and  explain 
that  I  don't  deserve  either  their  praise  or  their  cen- 
sure.' 

From  this  judicious  course  Mortimer  did  not  seek 
to  dissuade  him;  for,  being  an  American  born,  he 
thoroughly  understood  the  value  of  advertisement; 
and  he  knew  that  a  lively  correspondence  on  the 
authenticity  of  the  book  could  not  fail  to  advertise  it 
better  than  five  hundred  reviews,  good,  bad,  or  indif- 


288 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


u- 


■  i- 
iff 


ferent.  So  he  held  his  peace,  and  let  Arnold  do  as  he 
would  about  his  reputation  for  veracity.- 

As  they  were  talking  it  over,  liowever,  the  door 
opened  once  more,  and  in  rushed  Kathleen,  brimming 
over  with  excitement,  and  eager  to  show  Arnold  an- 
other review  which  she  had  happened  to  come  across 
in  a  daily  paper. 

Arnold  took  it  up  and  read  it.  His  face  changed 
as  he  did  so;  and  Mortimer,  who  looked  over  his 
shoulder  as  he  read,  could  see  that  this  review,  too, 
contained  precisely  the  same  cause  of  complaint,  from 
Arnold's  point  of  view,  as  the  other  one— it  attributed 
the  book,  as  an  original  romance,  to  the  transcriber 
and  translator,  and  complimented  him  on  his  brilliant 
and  creative  imagination.  Here  was  indeed  a  diffi- 
culty. Arnold  could  hardly  show  Kathleen  the  same 
distress  at  the  tone  of  the  notice  which  he  had  shown 
Kut'us  Mortimer;  she  came  in  so  overflowing  with 
womanly  joy  at  his  success  that  he  hadn't  the  heart 
to  damp  it ;  so  he  tried  his  best  to  look  as  if  he  liked 
it,  and  said  as  little  about  the  matter,  either  way,  as 
possible. 

Mortimer,  however,  took  a  different  view  of .  the 
situation. 

*  This  is  good,'  he  said ;  *  very  good.  These  two 
articles  strike  the  keynote.  Your  book  is  certainly 
going  to  make  a  success.  It  will  boom  through 
England.  I'm  sorry  now,  Willoughby,  you  cold  the 
copyright  for  all  time  outright  to  them,' 


CONSCIENTIOUS  SCRUPLES 


289 


V  CHAPTEE  XXVII. 

■  '(.■"■■,*■ ',  ■■■^ 

-   '         •;  ;     CONSCIENTIOUS   SCRUPLES. 

This  is  an  age  of  booms.  Intetitution  and  name  Have 
come  over  to  us  from  America.  When  a  thing 
succeeds  at  all,  it  succeeds,  as  a  rule,  to  the  very  top 
of  its  deserving.  So  in  a  few  weeks'  time  it  was 
abundantly  clear  that  *  An  Elizabethan  Seadog  *  was 
to  be  one  of  the  chief  booms  of  the  publishing  season. 
Everybody  bought  it ;  everybody  read  it ;  everybody 
talked  about  it.  Conan  Doyle  and  Rudyard  Kipling 
stood  trembling  for  their  laurels.  And  to  this  result 
Arnold  Willoughby  himself  quite  unconsciously  con- 
tributed by  writing  two  or  three  indigncnt  letters  to 
papers  that  reviewed  the  book  as  his  own  production, 
complaining  of  the  slight  thus  put  upon  his  veracity. 
Of  course  he  would  have  been  wholly  incapable  of  in- 
venting this  idea  as  an  advertising  dodge;  but  he 
wrote  with  such  earnestness  in  defence  of  his  own  true 
account  of  his  antiquarian  find,  that  everybody  read 
his  passionate  declarations  with  the  utmost  amuse- 
ment. 

*  He's  immense  V  Mr.  Stanley  remarked,  overjoyed, 
to  his  partner,  Mr.  Lockhart.  '  That  man's  immense. 
He's  simply  stupendous.  What  a  glorious  liar !  By 
far  the  finest  bit  of  fiction  in  the  whole  book  is  that 
marvellously  realistic  account  of  how  he  picked  up  the 
manuscript  in  a  small  shop  in  Venice ;  and  now  he 
caps  it  all  by  going  and  writing  to  the  Times  that  it's 
every  word  of  it  true,  and  that,  if  these  implied 
calumnies  continue  any  longer,  he  will  be  forced  at 
^ast  tQ  vindicate  his  character  by  a  trial  for  Ubel  \ 


sgo 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


"Delicious  I  delicious !  It's  the  loveliest  bit  of  advertis- 
ing I've  seen  for  years;  and  just  to  think  of  his 
getting  the  Times  to  aid  and  abet  him  in  it !' 

*But  have  you  seen  to-day's  Athenaum  V  Mr.  Lock- 
hart  responded  cheerfully. — 'No?  Well,  here  it  is, 
and  it's  finer  and  finer.  Their  reviewer  said  last  week, 
you  know,  they'd  very  much  like  to  inspect  the 
original  manuscript  of  such  a  unique  historical  docu- 
ment, and  humorously  hinted  that  it  ought  to  be 
preserved  in  the  British  Museum.  Well,  hang  me  if 
Willoughby  doesn't  pretend  this  week  to  take  their 
banter  quite  seriously,  and  proceed  to  spin  a  cock-and- 
bull  yarn  about  how  the  original  got  lost  at  sea  on  a 
Dundee  sealer !  Magnificent !  magnificent !  The  un- 
blushing audacity  of  it !  And  he  does  it  all  with  such 
an  air.  Nobody  ever  yet  equalled  him  as  an  amateur 
advertiser.  The  cheek  of  the  man's  so  fine.  He'd 
say  anything  to  screw  himself  into  notoriety  anyhow. 
And  the  queer  part  of  it  all  is  that  his  work's  quite 
good  enough  to  stand  by*  itself  on  its  own  merits 
without  that.  He's  a  splendid  story-teller.  Only,  he 
doesn't  confine  the  art  of  fiction  to  its  proper  limits.' 

Whether  it  was  by  virtue  of  Arnold  Willoughby's 
indignant  disclaimers,  however,  or  of  its  intrinsic 
merits  as  a  work  of  adventure,  'An  Elizabethan 
Seadog '  was  all  the  rage  at  the  libraries.  Mr.  Mudie, 
crowned  Apollo  of  our  British  Parnassus,  advertised 
at  once  a  thousand  copies.  '  And  it's  so  wonderful, 
you  know,*  all  the  world  said  to  its  neighbour ;  *  it 
was  written,  they  say,  by  a  common  sailor  !'  When 
Arnold  heard  that,  it  made  him  almost  ready  to  dis- 
close his  real  position  in  life ;  for  he  couldn't  bear  to 
take  credit  for  extraordinary  genius  and  self -education, 
V^en,  as  £^  matter  of  fact,  his  EngUsh  diction  was  the 


a',TVi--'^'«si'WB««*'<iw«"'*»*«^ 


CONSCIENTIOUS  SCRUPLES 


391 


net  result  of  the  common  gentlemanly  sojourn  at 
Harrow  and  Oxford.  But  he  was  obliged  to  bite  his 
lips  over  this  matter  in  silence.  The  praise  showered 
upon  the  book,  he  felt,  was  none  of  his  own  making ; 
half  of  it  was  due  to  Master  John  CoUingham  of  Holt 
in  Norfolk,  whom  nobody  believed  in ;  and  the  other 
half  was  due  to  the  actual  facts  of  the  Elizabethan 
narrative.  Whatever  little  credit  might  accrue  from 
the  style  and  workmanship  of  the  translation,  Arnold 
recognised  he  obtained  under  false  pretences  as  the 
self-taught  geniuc,  while  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  had 
always  possessed  every  possible  advantage  of  birth, 
breeding,  and  education.  So  it  came  to  pass  by  the 
irony  of  circumstance  that  he,  the  man  who  of  all 
others  desired  to  be  judged  on  his  merits  as  a  human 
being,  got  all  the  false  credit  of  a  book  he  had  never 
written,  and  a  difficulty  surmounted  which  had  never 
existed.    ■-.■":.     ^-:'.'?</■^:■::...  .^;  ■  ■  ^'^v^v-r"  .'^    '- 

The  position  positively  preyed  upon  Arnold  Wil- 
loughby's  spirits.  He  saw  he  was  misunderstood. 
People  took  him  for  just  the  opposite  of  what  he  really 
was ;  they  thought  him  a  clever,  pushing,  self-adver- 
tising adventurer — him,  the  sensitive,  shrinking,  self- 
depreciatory  martyr  to  an  over-exacting  conscience. 
And  there  was  no  way  out  of  it,  except  by  ruining  his 
cousin  Algy's  position.  He  must  endure  it  in  silence, 
and  stand  the  worst  that  people  could  say  or  thmk  of 
him.  After  all,  to  be,  not  to  seem,  was  the  goal  of  his 
ambition ;  what  he  was  in  himself,  not  what  people 
thought  of  him,  really  mattered.  There  was  one  man 
on  earth  whose  good  opinion  he  desired  to  conciliate 
and  to  retain — one  man  from  whom  he  could  never 
escape,  morning,  noon,  or  night ;  and  that  man  was 
Arnold  Willoughby.    As  long  as  he  earned  the  appro- 


4 

i 

1 

11 

1 

E^l^ 

fm 

^^? 


if  ' 


s  m.  * 


292 


i4r  MARKET  VALUE 


bation  of  his  own  conscience,  the  rest  was  but  a  matter 
of  minor  importance.  .^ 

Nor  did  the  boom  promise  to  do  Arnold  much 
permanent  or  p:.cuniary  good.  To  be  sure,  it  gained 
him  no  small  notoriety;  but,  then,  notoriety  was 
the  very  thing  he  most  wished  to  avoid.  London 
hostesses  were  anxious  after  their  kind  to  secure  the 
new  lion  for  their  *  at  homes  *  and  their  garden 
parties ;  and  Bufus  Mortimer  and  Kathleen  Hessle- 
grave  were  besieged  by  good  ladies,  as  soon  as  it  was 
known  they  had  made  Arnold's  acquaintance  at  Venice, 
with  vicarious  invitations  for  him  for  dinner,  lunch,  or 
evening.  But  Arnold  was  not  to  be  drawn.  *  So  very 
retiring,  you  know!'  people  said;  *  doesn't  like  to 
make  himself  cheap.  Quite  a  recluse,  Mr.  Mortimer 
tells  me.  That's  often  the  way  with  these  men  of 
genius.  Think  so  much  of  their  favours !  Don't 
want  to  let  us  every- day  people  have  the  benefit  of 
their  society.'  But  Arnold's  point  of  view  was  simply 
this — that  if  Canon  Valentine  had  been  able  to 
recognise  him,  so  might  somebody  else ;  and  therefore 
he  held  it  best  to  avoid  that  great  world  he  had  fled 
long  before,  and  to  keep  to  his  own  little  circle  of 
artistic  acquaintances. 

Meanwhile,  the  book  made  money.  It  was  making 
money  daily.  And  under  these  circumstances,  it 
occurred  to  Mr.  Stanley  one  morning  to  observe  to  his 
partner : 

*  I  say,  Lockhart,  don't  you  think  it's  about  time 
for  us  to  send  a  little  cheque  to  that  fellow  Wil- 
loughby  ?' 

Mr.  Lockhart  looked  up  from  his  papers. 

*  Well,  you're  right,  perhaps,*  he  answered.  *  He's 
a  flrst-rate  man,  there's  no  doubt,  and  we  had  the 


CONSCIENTIOUS  SCRUPLES 


29J 


book  from  him  cheap.  We  gave  him  fifty  pounds  for 
it.  We've  made — let  me  see — I  should  say,  seven 
hundred.  Let's  send  him  a  cheque  for  a  hundred 
guineas.     'Pon  my  soul,  he  deserves  it.' 

'All  right,'  the  senior  partner  answered,  drawing 
out  his  cheque-book  and  proceeding  to  act  at  once  upon 
the  generous  suggestion. 

Generous,  I  say,  and  say  rightly,  though  it  is  the 
fashion  among  certain  authors  to  talk  about  the  mean- 
ness and  stinginess  of  publishers.  As  a  matter  of 
observation,  I  should  say,  on  the  contrary,  there  are 
no  business  men  on  earth  so  just  and  so  generous.  In 
no  other  trade  would  a  man  who  has  bought  an  article 
for  a  fair  price  in  the  open  market,  and  then  has 
found  it  worth  more  than  the  vendor  expected,  feel 
himself  called  upon  to  make  that  vendor  a  free  gift 
of  a  portion  of  his  profits.  But  publishers  often  do 
it;  indeed,  almost  as  a  matter  of  course,  expect  to 
do  it.  Intercourse  with  an  elevating  and  ennobling 
profession  has  produced  in  the  class  an  exceptionally 
high  standard  of  generosity  and  enlightened  self- 
interest. 

As  soon  as  Arnold  received  that  cheque,  he  went 
round  with  it  at  once,  much  disturbed,  to  Kathleen's, 

*  What  ought  I  to  do  ?*  he  asked.  *  This  is  very 
embarrassing.' 

*  Why  cash  it,  of  course,*  Kathleen  answered.  *  What 
on  earth  should  you  wish  to  return  it  for,  dear 
Arnold  ?' 

*  Well,  you  see,*  Arnold  replied,  looking  shamefaced, 
•it's  sent  under  a  misconception.  They  persist  in 
believing  I  wrote  that  book.  But  you  know  I  didn't ; 
I  only  discovered  and  transcribed  and  translated  it. 
Therefore,  they're  paying  me  for  what  I  never  did. 


i94 


At  MARKET  VALU^ 


And  as  a  man  of  honour,  I  confess  I  don't  see  how  1 
can  take  their  money.' 

*  But  they  made  it  out  of  your  translation,*  Kathleen 
answered,  secretly  admiring  him  all  the  time  in  her 
own  heart  of  hearts  for  his  sturdy  honesty.  *  After 
all,  you  discovered  the  book ;  you  deciphered  it ;  you 
translated  it.  The  original's  lost;  nobody  else  can 
ever  make  another  translation.  The  copyright  of  it 
was  yours,  and  you  sold  it  to  them  under  its  real 
value.  They're  only  returning  you  now  a  small  part 
of  what  you  would  have  made  if  you  had  published  it 
yourself  at  your  own  risk ;  and  I  think  you're  entitled 
to  it.' 

Arnold  was  economist  enough  to  6ee  at  a  'glance 
through  that  specious  feminine  fallacy. 

*0h  no,'  he  answered  with  warmth.  'That's  not 
the  fair  way  to  put  it.  If  I'd  had  capital  enough  at 
the  time,  and  had  published  it  myself,  I  would  have 
risked  my  own  money,  and  would  have  been  fairly 
entitled  to  whatever  I  got  upon  it.  But  I  hadn't  the 
capital,  don't  you  see  ?  and  even  if  I  had,  I  wouldn't 
have  cared  to  chance  it.  That's  what  the  publisher  is 
for.  He  has  capital,  and  he  chooses  to  risk  it  in  the 
publication  of  books,  some  of  which  are  successes,  and 
some  of  which  are  failures.  He  expects  the  gains  on 
the  one  to  balance  and  make  up  for  the  losses  on  the 
other.  If  he  had  happened  to  lose  by  the  "  Eliza- 
bethan Seadog,"  I  wouldn't  have  expected  him  to 
come  down  upon  me  to  make  good  his  deficit.  There- 
fore, of  course,  when  he  happens  to  have  made  by  it, 
I  can't  expect  him  to  come  forward,  out  of  pure 
generosity,  and  give  me  a  portion  of  what  are  strictly 
his  own  profits.' 

Kathleen  saw  he  was  right ;  her  intelligence  went  with 


'■-.-it 


CONSCIENTIOUS  SCRUPLES 


295 


him ;  yet  she  couldn't  bear  to  see  him  let  a  hundred 
pounds  slip  so  easily  through  his  fingers — though  she 
would  have  loved  and  respected  him  a  great  deal  the 
less  had  he  not  been  so  constituted.  *But  surely,* 
she  said,  *  they  must  know  themselves  they  bought  it 
too  cheap  of  you,  or  else  they  would  never  dream  of 
sending  you  this  conscience-money.' 

*  No,'  Arnold  answered  resolutely :  *  I  don't  see  it 
that  way.  When  I  sold-  them  the  book,  fifty  pounds 
was  its  full  market  value.  I  was  glad  to  get  so  much, 
and  glad  to  sell  to  them.  Therefore,  they  bought 
it  at  its  fair  price  for  the  moment.  The  money- 
w  rth  of  a  manuscript,  especially  a  manuscript  by  an 
unknown  writer,  must  always  be  to  a  great  extent 
a  matter  of  speculation.  I  didn't  think  the  thing 
worth  fifty  pounds  when  I  offered  it  for  sale  to  Stanley 
and  Lockhart;  and  when  they  named  their  price,  I 
jumped  at  the  arrangement.  If  they  had  proposed  to 
me  two  alternative  modes  of  purchase  at  the  time — 
fifty  pounds  down,  or  a  share  of  the  profits — I  would 
have  said  at  once :  **  Give  me  the  money  in  hand, 
with  no  risk  or  uncertainty."  Therefore,  how  can  I 
be  justified,  now  I  know  the  thing  has  turned  out  a 
complete  success,  in  accepting  the  share  I  would  have 
refused  beforehand  ?' 

This  was  a  hard  nut  for  Kathleen.  As  a  matter 
of  logic — being  a  reasonable  creature  —  she  saw 
for  herself  Arnold  was  wholly  right ;  yet  she 
couldn't  bear  to  see  him  throw  away  a  hundred 
pounds,  that  was  so  much  to  him  now,  on  a  mere 
point  of  sentiment.  So  she  struck  out  a  middle 
course. 

'  Let's  go  and  ask  Mr.  Mortimer,'  she  said.  *  He's 
a  clear 'headed  business  man,  as  well  as  a  painter. 


"/i 


'sm 


29^ 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


i:  fe 


He'll  tell  us  how  it  strikes  him  from  the  point  of  view 
of  unadulterated  business.' 

*  Nobody  else's  opinion,  as  mere  opinion,  would 
count  for  anything  with  me,*  Arnold  answered  quietly. 
*  My  conscience  has  only  itself  to  reckon  with,  not 
anybody  outside  me.  But  perhaps  Mortimer  might 
have  some  reason  to  urge — some  element  in  the 
problem  that  hasn't  yet  struck  me.  If  so,  of  course 
I  shall  be  prepai.ed  to  give  it  whatever  weight  it  may 
deserve  in  forming  my  decision.*     % 

So  they  walked  round  together  to  Eufus  Mortimer's 
London  house.  Mortimer  was  in  his  studio,  painting 
away  at  an  ideal  picture  of  *  Love  Self -slain,*  which 
was  not,  indeed,  without  its  allegorical  application  to 
himself  and  Kathleen  and  Arnold  Willoughby.  For 
it  represented  the  god  as  a  winged  young  man,  very 
sweet  and  sad-looking,  mortally  wounded,  yet  trying 
to  pass  on  a  lighted  torch  in  his  hands  to  a  more 
fortunate  comrade  who  bent  over  him  in  pity.  Kath- 
leen took  little  notice  of  the  canvas,  however — for 
love,  alas !  is  always  a  wee  bit  selfish  to  the  feelings  of 
outsiders — but  laid  her  statement  of  the  case  before 
Mortimer  succinctly.  She  told  him  all  they  had 
said,  down  to  Arnold's  last  remark,  that  if  Eufus 
had  any  new  element  in  the  problem  to  urge,  he 
would  be  prepared  to  give  it  full  weight  in  his 
decision. 

When  she  reached  that  point,  Bufus  broke  in  with 
a  smile. 

*Why,  of  course  I  have/  he  answered.  'I'm  a 
capitalist  myself;  and  I  see  at  a  glance  the  weak 
point  of  your  argument.  You  forget  that  these  pub- 
lishers are  business  men ;  they  are  thinking  not  only 
of  the  past  but  of  the  future.    Gratitude,  we  all  know, 


it^i^ 


CONSCIENTIOUS  SCRUPLES 


297 


is  a  lively  sense  of  favours  to  come.  It's  pretty  much 
the  same  with  the  generosity  of  publishers.  As  a 
business  man,  I  don't  for  a  moment  believe  in  it. 
They  see  you've  made  a  hit,  and  they  think  you're 
likely  to  make  plenty  more  hits  in  future.  They  know 
they've  paid  you  a  low  price  for  your  book,  and 
.  they've  made  a  lot  of  money  for  themselves  out  of 
publishing  it.  They  don't  want  to  drive  away  the 
goose  that  lays  the  golden  eggs ;  so  they  offer  you  a 
hundred  pounds  as  a  sort  of  virtual  retaining  fee — an 
inducement  to  you  to  bring  your  next  book  for  issue 
to  them,  not  to  any  other  publislier.' 

*  That  settles  the  thing  then,*  Arnold  answered 
decisively. 

'You  mean,  you'll  keep  the  cheque?'  Kathleen 
exclaimed  with  beaming  eyes. 

'Oh  dear  no,'  Arnold  replied  with  a  very  broad 
smile.  '  Under  those  circumstances,  of  course,  there's 
:  nothing  at  all  left  for  me  but  to  return  it  instantly.' 

'Why  so?'  Kathleen  cried,  amazed.  She  knew 
Arnold  too  well  by  this  time  to  suppose  he  would  do 
anything  but  what  seemed  to  him  the  absolutely  right 
and  honest  conduct. 

*  Why,  don't  you  see,^  Arnold  answered,  *  they  send 
me  this  cheque  always  under  that  same  mistaken 
notion  that  it  was  I  who  wrote  the  "  Elizabethan 
Seadog,"  and  therefore  that  I  can  write  any  number 
more  such  works  of  imagination  ?  Now,  the  real  fact 
is  I*^m  a  mere  translator — a  perfectly  prosaic  every- 
day translator.  I  never  so  much  as  tried  to  write  a 
story  in  my  life ;  and  if  they  think  they're  going  to 
get  future  books  cut  of  me,  and  be  recouped  in  that 
way,  they're  utterly  mistaken.  I  haven't  the  faintest 
idea  of  how  to  write  a  novel.     So  it  wouldn't  be  fair 


'4:?! 


pijipipppii, ,  MliUiJIIIl 


29S 


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to  accept  their  money  under  such  false  pretences.  I 
shall  send  their  cheque  back  to  them.' 

'  Don't  do  that,'  Mortimer  said,  laying  one  hand  on 
his  shoulder.  *  Nob  >dy  ever  knows  what  he  can  do 
till  he  tries.  Why  not  set  to  work  at  a  similar  novel, 
and  see  what  you  can  make  of  it  ?  If  you  fail,  no 
matter ;  and  if  you  succeed,  why,  there  you  are ;  your 
problem  is  solved  for  you.  The  "Elizabethan  Seadog" 
would  give  you  a  fair  start,  right  or  wrong,  with  the 
reviewers ;  and  if  you've  anything  in  you,  you  ought 
to  pull  through  with  it.' 

But  Arnold  shook  his  head. 

*  No,  no/  he  said  firmly ;  *  that  would  never  do.  It 
would  be  practically  dishonest.  I  can't  describe 
myself  as  the  author  of  the  "  Elizabethan  Seadog," 
for  that  I'm  not ;  and  if  I  call  myself  even  the  editor 
or  translator,  I  should  seem  to  be  claiming  a  sort  of 
indirect  and  suggested  authorship  to  which  I've  no 
right.  I  must  let  the  thing  drop.  I'm  almost  sorry 
now  I  ever  began  with  it.* 

*At  any  rate,'  Mortimer  cried,  'come  along  with 
me  now  to  Stanley  and  Lockhart's.' 

*  Oh,  I'll  come  along  with  you,  if  that's  all,'  Arnold 
responded  readily.  '  I  want  to  go  round  and  return 
this  cheque  to  them,' 


CHAPTER  XXVni. 


UOBTIMEB  STBIEES  HOME. 


Whbn  Arnold  arrived  at  Stanley  and  Lockhart's,  it 
almost  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  sun  had  gone  back 
upon  the  dial  of  his  lifetime  to  the  days  when  he  was 


V'iKl         '^ " 


0»,«H««««-^ 


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MORTIMER  STRIKES  HOME 


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.(",•■ 


still  an  Earl  and  a  somebody.  True,  the  shop-boy  of 
whom  he  inquired,  in  a  timid  voice,  if  he  could  see 
one  of  the  partners,  scarcely  deigned  to  look  up  from 
his  ledger  at  first,  as  he  murmured,  in  the  surly 
accent  of  the  underling,  'Name,  please?'  But  the 
moment  the  answer  came,  '  Mr.  Arnold  Willoughby,' 
the  boy  left  off  writing,  awe-struck,  and  scrambling 
down  from  his  high  perch,  opened  the  low  wooden 
door  with  a  deferential,  *  This  way,  sir.  Ill  ask  if  the 
head  of  the  firm  is  engaged. — Mr.  Jones,  can  Mr. 
Stanley  see  Mr.  Arnold  Willoughby?' 

That  name  was  like  magic.  Mr.  Jones  led  him  on 
with  attentive  politeness.  Arnold  followed  upstairs, 
as  in  the  good  old  days  when  he  was  an  unchallenged 
Earl,  attended  and  heralded  by  an  ushering  clerk  in  a 
most  respectful  attitude.  Even  the  American  mil- 
lionaire himself,  whom  the  functionaries  at  once 
recognised,  scarcely  met  with  so  much  honour  in  tl^t 
mart  of  books  as  the  reputed  author  of  the  book  of  the 
season.  For  "Willoughby  spelt  money  for  the  firm 
just  that  moment.  And  the  worst  of  it  all  was,  as 
Arnold  reflected  to  himself  with  shame  and  regret,  all 
this  deference  was  being  paid  l^im  no  more  on.  his  own 
personal  merits  than  ever,  but  simply  and  solely 
because  the  publishing  world  persisted  in  believing  he 
had  written  the  story,  which  as  a  matter  of  fact  he 
had  only  deciphered,  transcribed,  and  Englished. 

In  the  counting-house,  Mr.  Stanley  met  him  with 
outstretched  arms,  metaphorically  speaking.  He 
rubbed  his  hands  with  delight.  He  was  all  bland 
expectancy.  The  new  and  rising  author  had  come 
round,  no  doubt,  to  thank  him  in  person  for  the 
cheque  the  firm  had  sent  him  by  the  last  post  of 
yesterday. 


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*  Charmed  to  see  you,  I'm  sure,  Mr.  Willoughby,* 
the  senior  partner  exclaimed,  motioning  him  with  one 
hand  to  the  chair  of  honour ;  '  and  you  too,  Mr. 
Mortimer.  Lovely  weather,  isn't  it?— Well,  the 
reception  your  book  has  had  both  from  press  and 
public  is  flattering — most  flattering.  We  are  selling 
it  fast  still ;  in  fact,  this  very  day  I've  given  orders  to 
pull  off  another  thousand  of  the  library  edition.  I'm 
sure  it  must  be  most  gratifying  to  you.  It's  seldom  a 
first  book  comes  in  for  such  an  ovation.' 

Arnold  hardly  knew  what  to  answer  ;  this  cordiality 
flurried  him ;  but  after  a  short  preamble,  he  drew 
forth  the  cheque  and  explained  in  a  very  few  words 
that  he  couldn't  accept  it. 

Mr.  Stanley  stared  at  him,  and  rang  his  little 
bell. 

*  Ask  Mr.  Lockhart  to  step  this  way,'  he  said,  with 
a  puzzled  look.  '  This  is  a  matter  to  be  considered  by 
all  four  of  us  in  council.' 

Mr.  Lockhart  stepped  that  way  with  cheerful 
alacrity ;  and  to  him,  too,  Arnold  explained  in  the 
briefest  detail  why  he  had  refused  the  cheque.  The 
two  partners  glanced  at  one  another.  They  hummed 
and  hawed  nervously.  Then  Mr.  Lockhart  said  in 
slow  tones : 

'  Well,  this  is  a  disappointment  to  uSi  I  confess, 
Mr.  Willoughby.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  though  we 
desired  to  divide  the  profits  more  justly  than  they 
were  being  divided  by  our  original  agreement,  as  is 
our  habit  in  such  cases,  still,  I  won't  deny  we  had 
also  looked  forward  to  the  pleasure  of  publishing  other 
books  from  your  pen  on  subsequent  occasions.'  (Mr. 
Lockhart  was  a  pompous  and  correct  old  gentleman, 
who  ]mew  how  tq  talk  in  private  life  the  set  language 


md 


MORTIMER  STRIKES  HOME 


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of  the  bufiiiiesH  letter.)  *  We  hoped,  in  point  of  fact, 
you  would  have  promised  us  a  second  book  for  the 
coming  season.' 

Arnold's  face  flushed  fiery  red.  This  persistent 
disbelief  made  him  positively  angry.  In  a  few  forcible 
words,  he  explained  once  more  to  the  astonished 
publisher  that  he  had  not  written  *  An  Elizabethan 
Seadog  ' ;  and  that  he  doubted  his  ability  to  write  any- 
thing like  it.  In  any  case,  he  must  beg  them  to  take 
back  their  cheque,  and  not  to  expect  work  of  any  sort 
from  him  in  future. 

The  partners  stared  at  him  in  blank  astonishment. 
They  glanced  at  one  another  curiously.  Then  Mr. 
Lockhart  rose,  nodded,  and  left  the  room.  Mr.  Stanley, 
left  alone,  engaged  them  in  conversation  as  best  he 
could,  for  a  minute  or  two.  At  the  end  of  that  time  a 
message  came  to  the  senior  partner  : 

*  Mr.  Lockhart  says,  sir,  could  you  speak  to  him  for 
.one  moment  ?' 

*  Certainly,'  Mr.  Stanley  answered. — '  Will  you 
excuse  me  a  minute,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Willoughby? 
There's  the  last  review  of  your  book ;  perhaps  you'd 
like  to  glance  at  it.'  And  with  another  queer  look  he 
disappeared  mysteriously. 

*  Well,^  he  said  to  his  partner,  as  soon  as  they  were 
alone  in  Mr.  Lockhart's  sanctum,  *  what  on  earth  does 
this  mean?  Do  you  suppose  somebody  else  has 
offered  him  higher  terms  than  he  thinks  he'll  get 
from  us  ?  Jones  and  Burton  may  have  bribed  him. 
He's  a  thundering  liar,  any  way,  and  one  doesn't  know 
what  the  dickens  to  believe  about  him.' 

'  No,'  Mr.  Lockhart  replied  confidently ;  *  that's 
not  it,  I'm  sure,  Stanley.  If  he  were  a  rogue,  he'd 
tave  pocketed  bur  cheque  without  a  word,  and  t:.hcu 


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his  next  book  all  the  same  to  the  other  people.  It 
isn't  that,  I'm  certain,  as  sure  as  my  name's  Lockhart. 
Don't  jon  see  what  it  is?  The  fellow's  mad;  he 
really  thinks  now  he  didn't  write  the  "  Seadog." 
Success  has  turned  his  head.  It's  an  awful  pity. 
He  began  with  the  story  as  an  innocent  deception ;  he 
went  on  with  it  afterwards  as  an  excellent  advertise- 
ment ;  now.  he's  gone  off  his  head  with  unexpected 
triumph,  and  really  believes  he  didn't  write  it,  but 
discovered  it.  However,  it's  all  the  same  to  us.  I 
tell  you  what  we  must  do :  ask  him,  if  ever  he  discovers 
any  more  interesting  manuscripts,  to  give  us  the  first 
refusal  of  his  translation  or  decipherment.' 

But  when  they  returned  a  few  minutes  later  with 
this  notable  proposition,  Arnold  could  only  burst  out 
laughing. 

'No,  no,'  he  said,  really  amused  at  last.  'I  see 
what  you  think.  Mr.  Mortimer  will  tell  you  I'm  as 
sane  as  you  are.  You  fancy  I'm  mad;  but  you're 
quite  mistaken.  However,  I  can  honestly  promise 
you  what  you  ask — that  if  I  have  ever  again  any  pub- 
lishing business  to  transact,  I  will  bring  my  work 
first  to  you  for  refusal.'  _^ 

So  the  interview  ended.  Comic  as  it  was  from  one 
point  of  view,  it  yet  saddened  Arnold  somewhat.  He 
couldn't  help  being  struck  by  this  persistent  fate  which 
made  him  all  through  life  be  praised  or  admired,  not 
for  what  he  really  was  or  really  had  done,  but  for  some 
purely  adventitious,  or  even  unreal,  circumstance.  He 
went  away  and  resumed  once  more  his  vain  search  for 
Work.  But  as  day  after  day  went  by,  and  he  found 
nobody  ready  to  employ  a  practically  one-armed  man, 
with  no  recommendation  save  that  of  having  served 
his  time  as  9,  common  sailor,  his  he^rt  Qank  withir^ 


MORTIMER  STRIKES  HOME 


303 


him.  The  weather  grew  colder,  too,  and  his  weak 
lung  began  to  feel  the  chilly  fogs  of  London.  Worst 
of  all,  he  was  keeping  Kathleen  also  in  England  ;  for 
she  wouldn't  go  South  and  leave  him,  though  her  work 
demanded  that  she  should  winter  as  usual  in  Venice, 
where  she  could  paint  the  range  of  subjects  for  which 
alone,  after  the  hateful  fashion  of  the  present  day,  she 
could  find  a  ready  market.  All  this  made  Arnold  not 
a  little  anxious,  the  more  so  as  his  fifty  pounds,  no 
matter  how  well  husbanded,  were  beginning  to  run 
out  and  leave  his  exchequer  empty. 

In  this  strait,  it  was  once  more  Eufus  Mortimer, 
their  unfailing  friend,  who  came  to  Arnold's  and  Kal^i- 
leen's  assistance.  He  went  round  to  Arnold's  rooms 
one  afternoon  full  of  serious  warning. 

*  Look  here,  my  dear  Willoughby,'  he  said  ;  '  there 
is  such  a  thing  as  carrying  conscientious  scruples  to 
an  impracticable  excess.  I  don't  pretend  to  act  up  to 
my  principles  myself ;  if  I  did,  I  should  be  compelled 
to  sell  all  I  have,  like  you,  and  give  it  to  the  poor,  or 
their  modern  equivalent,  whatever  that  may  be,  in  the 
dominant  political  economy  of  the  moment.  But, 
somehow,  I  don't  feel  inclined  to  go  such  lengths  for 
my  principles.  I  lock  them  up  in  a  cabinet  as  interest, 
ing  curiosities.  Still,  you,  you  know,  rush  into  the 
opposite  extreme.  The  past  is  past,  and  can't,  of 
course,  be  undone ;  though  I  don't  exactly  see  that 
you  were  bound  in  the  first  instance  quite  so  utterly 
to  disinherit  yourself — to  cut  yourself  off  with  the 
proverbial  shilling.  But  as  things  now  stand,  I  think 
it's  not  right  of  you  merely  for  the  sake  of  pampering 
your  individual  conscience — which,  after  all,  may  be 
just  as  tpuch  mistaken  as  anybody  else's  conscience — 
to  let  Misn  Hesslegrave  live  in  such  perpetual  anxiety 


^V^*^  ,■  ■'iV-"'\\-^^^  , 


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i4r  MARKET  VALUE 


on  your  behalf.  For  her  sake,  I  feel  sure,  you  ought 
to,  make  up  your  mind  to  sacrifice  to  some  extent  your 
personal  scruples,  and  at  least  have  a  try  at  writing 
something  or  other  of  your  own  for  Stanley  and  Lock- 
hart.  You  could  publish  it  simply  under  your  present 
name  as  Arnold  Willoughby,  without  reference  in  any 
way  to  the  "Elizabethan  Sea  Jog  ";  and  if,  in  spite  of 
all  your  repeated  disclaimers,  people  still  persiBh  m 
describing  you  as  the  author  of  the  book  you  only 
translated,  why,  that's  their  fault,  not  yours,  and  I 
don't  see  why  you  need  trouble  yourself  one  penny 
about  it.* 

J  '  I've  thought  of  that  these  last  few  days,'  Arnold 
answered,  yielding  slightly ;  *  and  I've  even  begun  to 
plan  out  a  skeleton  plot  for  a  projected  story;  but, 
then,  it's — oh,  so  different  from  "  An  Elizabethan  Sea- 
dog";  ^  drama  of  the  soul;  a  very  serious  perform- 
ance. I  couldn't  really  imagine  anything  myself  in 
the  least  like  Master  John  CoUingham's  narrative. 
I've  no  taste  for  romance.  What  I  think  I  might  do 
is  a  story  of  the  sad  lives  of  the  seafaring  folk  I  have 
lived  and  worked  among — a  realistic  tale  of  hard  toil 
and  incessant  privation  and  heroic  suffering.  But  all 
that's  so  different  from  the  Elizabethan  buccaneer, 
that  I  don't  suppose  any  publisher  would  care  to 
touch  it.* 

*  Don't  you  believe  it,'  Mortimer  answered  with  deci- 
sion. *  They'd  jump  at  it  like  grizzlies.  Your  name 
would  be  enough  now  to  make  any  book  go.  I  don't 
say  more  than  one  ;  if  your  next  should  be  a  failure, 
you'll  come  down  like  a  stick,  as  you  went  up  like  a 
rocket.  I've  seen  more  than  one  of  these  straw  fires 
flare  to  heaven  in  my  time,  both  in  literature  and  art ; 
and  I  know  how  they  burn  out  after  tb^  first  flare-up 


^ 


MORTIMER  STRIKES  HOME 


m 


— a  mere  flash  in  the  pan,  a  red  blaze  of  the  moment. 
But,  at  any  rate,  you  could  try  :  if  you  succeeded,  well 
and  good ;  if  not,  you'd  at  least  be  not  a  penny  worse 
oflf  than  you  are  at  present.' 

*  Well,  I've  worked  up  my  subject  a  bit  in  my  own 
bead,'  Arnold  answered  more  cheerfully ;  *  and  I 
almost  think  I  see  my  way  to  something  that  might 
possibly  stand  a  chance  of  caking  the  public;  but 
there's  the  difficulty  of  writing  it.  What  can  I  do 
with  this  maimed  hand  ?  It  won't  hold  a  pen.  And 
though  I've  tried  with  my  left,  I  find  it  such  slow 
work  as  far  as  I've  yet  got  on  with  it.' 

*  Why  not  have  a  typewriter  ?'  Mortimer  exclaimed, 
with  the  quick  practical  sense  of  his  countrymen. 
*  You  could  work  it  with  one  hand — not  quite  so  quick 
as  with  two,  of  course,  but,  still,  pretty  easily.' 

*  I  thought  of  that,  too,'  Arnold  answered,  looking 
down.  *  But — they  cost  twenty  pounds.  And  I 
haven't  twenty  pounds  in  the  world  to  bless  myself 
with.' 

*  If  you'd  let  me  make  you  a  present  of  one * 

Mortimer  began;  but  Arnold  checked  him  with  a 
hasty  wave  of  that  imperious  hand. 

*  Not  for  her  sake  ?'  the  American  murmured  in  a 
very  low  voice. 

And  Arnold  answered  gently  :  '  No,  dear  Mortimer, 
you  kind,  good  friend — not  even  for  her  sake.  There 
are  still  a  few  prejudices  I  retain  even  now  from  the 
days  when  I  was  a  gentleman— and  that  is  one  of 
them.'  '-     V     n   \^^ 

Mortimer  rose  from  his  seat.  ?  -• 

*  Well,  leave  it  to  me,'  he  said  briskly.  *  I  think  I 
see  a  way  out  of  it*  And  he  left  the  room  in  haete, 
much  to  Arnold's  mute  wonder. 


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A  few  hours  later  he  returned,  bringing  with  him 
in  triumph  a  mysterious  paper  of  most  legal  dimen- 
sions. It  was  folded  in  three,  and  engrossed  outside 
with  big  black  letters,  which  seemed  to  imply  that 
*  This  Indenture '  witnessed  something  really  impor- 
tant. '  •' 

*  Now,  all  I  want,'  he  said  in  a  most  business-like 
voice,  laying  the  document  before  Arnold,  '  is  just 
your  signature.'  "  f         ■  ^ 

*  My  signature !'  Arnold  answered,  with  a  glance  at 
the  red  wafers  that  adorned  the  instrument.  *  Why, 
that's  just  the  very  thing  I'm  most  particular  about 
giving.' 

*0h,  but  this  is  quite  simple,  I  assure  you,' 
Mortimer  replied  v;ith  a  persuasive  smile.  *  This  is 
just  a  small  agreement  with  Stanley  and  Lockhart. 
They  covenant  to  pay  you  one  hundred  pounds  down 
— look  here,  I've  got  the  cheque  in  my  pocket  already 
— the  merest  formality — by  way  of  advance  on  the 
royalties  of  a  book  you  engage  to  write  for  them ;  a 
work  of  fiction,  of  whatever  sort  you  choose,  length, 
size,  and  style  to  be  left  to  your  discretion.  And 
they're  to  publish  it  when  complete,  in  the  form  that 
may  seem  to  them  most  suitable  for  the  purpose, 
giving  you  fifteen  per  cent,  on  the  net  price  of  all 
copies  sold  in  perpetuity.  And  if  I  were  you,  Wil- 
loughby,  I'd  accept  it  offhand.  And  I'll  tell  you  what 
I'd  do :  I'd  start  off  at  once  post-haste  to  Venice, 
where  you'd  be  near  Miss  Hesslegrave,  and  where  she 
and  you  could  talk  the  book  over  together  while  in 
progress.'  He  dropped  his  voice  a  little.  '  Seriously, 
my  dear  fellow,'  he  said,  '  you  both  of  you  look  ill, 
and  the  sooner  you  can  get  away  from  this  squalid 
village,  I  think,  the  better.' 


MORTtMER  STRIKES  tJOMS 


SO? 


Arnold  read  over  the  agreement  with  a  critical  eye. 

*  I  see,'  he  said,  *  they  expressly  state  that  they 
do  not  hold  me  to  have  written  "  An  Elizabethan 
Seadog,"  but  merely  to  have  discovered,  deciphered, 
and  edited  it.' 

*  Yes,'  Mortimer  replied  with  a  cheerful  smile.  *  I'm 
rather  proud  of  that  clause.  I  foresaw  that  that 
interminably  obtrusive  old  conscience  of  yours  would 
step  in  with  one  of  its  puritanical  objections,  if  I  didn't 
distinctly  stipulate  for  that  exact  proviso ;  so  I  made 
them  put  it  in ;  and  now  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what 
you  can  possibly  stick  at ;  for  it  merely  provides  that 
they  will  pay  you  fifteen  per  cent,  on  any  precious 
book  you  may  care  to  write ;  and  they're  so  perfectly 
sure  of  seeing  their  money  again,  that  they'll  give  you 
a  hundred  pounds  down  on  the  nail  for  the  mere  pro- 
mise to  write  it.'  ■        '         V     ^ 

'But  suppose  I  were  to  die  meanwhile,'  Arnold 
objected,  still  staring  at  it,  'what  insurance  could  they 
give  themselves  ?' 

EufuB  Mortimer  seized  his  friend  by  the  waist 
perforce ;  pushed  him  bodily  into  a  chair ;  placed  a 
pen  in  his  left  hand,  and  laid  the  document  before 
him. 

*  Upon  my  soul,'  he  said,  half  humorously,  half 
angrily,  '  that  irrepressible  conscience  of  yours  is 
enough  to  drive  any  sane  man  out  of  his  wits. 
There !  not  another  word.  Take  the  pen  and  sign. — 
Thank  Heaven,  that's  done.  I  didn't  ever  think  I 
could  get  you  to  do  it.  Now,  before  you've  time  to 
change  what  you're  pleased  to  call  your  mind,  I  shall 
rush  off  in  a  cab  and  carry  this  straight  to  Stanley 
and  Lockhart.  Sign  the  receipt  for  the  hundred 
pounds  at  once. — That's  right !    One  must  treat  you 


3o8 


AT  MARKET  VALVE 


like  a  child,  I  see,  or  there's  no  doing  anything  with 
you.  Now,  I'm  off.  Don't  you  move  from  your  chair 
till  I  come  back  again.  Can't  you  see,  you  donkey, 
that  if  they  want  to  be  insured  against  the  chance  of 
your  death,  that's  their  affair,  not  yours?  and  that 
they  have  insured  themselves  already  a  dozen  times 
over  with  the  "Elizabethan  Seadog?"  '  ' 

*  Stop,  stop  a  moment,'  Arnold  ciicJi,  some  new 
scruple  suggesting  itself ;  but  Mortimer  rushed  head- 
long down  the  stairs  without  heeding  him.  He  had  a 
hansom  in  waiting  below. 

*  To  Stanley  and  Lockhart's,'  he  cried  eagerly, 
*near  Hyde  Park  Corner.'  And  Arnold  was  left  alone 
to  reflect  with  himself  upon  the  consequences  of  his 
now  fairly  irrevocable  action. 

In  half  an  hour,  once  more  Mortimer  was  back, 
quite  radiant. 

*  Now,  that's  a  bargain,'  he  said  cheerily.  *  We've 
sent  it  off  to  be  duly  stamped  at  Somerset  House ;  and 
then  you  can't  go  back  upon  it  without  gross  breach 
of  contract.  You're  booked  for  it  now,  thank 
Heaven.  Whether  you  can  or  you  can't  you've  got 
to  write  a  novel.  You're  under  agreement  to  supply 
one,  good,  bad,  or  indifferent.  Next,  you  must  come 
out  with  me  and  choose  a  typewriter.  We'll  see  for 
ourselves  which  is  the  best  adapted  to  a  man  with  one 
hand.  And  after  that,  we'll  go  straight  and  call  on 
Miss  Hesslegrave;  for  I  shan't  be  satisfied  now  till  I've 
packed  you  both  off  by  quick  train  to  Venice.' 

*  I  wonder,'  Arnold  said,  *  if  ever  fiction  before  was 
so  forcibly  extorted  by  brute  violence  from  any  man  ?' 

*  I  don't  know,'  Mortimer  answered.  *  And  I'm 
sure  I  don't  care.  But  I  do  know  this — if  you  try 
to  get  out  of  it  now  on  the  plea  of  compulsion,  why, 


.■.3f!.f<liltrmf^»0SC 


If'**i: 


MORTIMER  STRIKES  HOME 


309 


to  prove  you  clearly  wrong,  and  show  you're  in  every 
way  a  free  agent,  I'm  hanged  if  I  don't  brain  you.' 

As  they  went  away  from  the  shop  where  they  had 
finally  selected  the  most  suitable  typewriter,  Arnold 
turned  towards  Cornhill. 

*  Well,  what  are  you  up  to  now?'  Mortimer  inquired 
suspiciously. 

*  I  was  thinking,'  Arnold  said  with  some  little  hesi- 
tation, 'whether  I  oughtn't  in  justice  to  Stanlej^  and 
Lockhart  to  insure  my  life  for  a  hundred  pounds, 
in  case  I  should  die,  don't  you  know,  before  I  finished 
my  novel.' 

Next  instant,  several  people  in  Cheapside  were 
immensely  surprised  by  the  singular  spectacle  of  a 
mild-faced  gentleman  in  frock-coat  and  chimney-pot 
hat  shaking  his  companion  vigorously,  as  a  terrier 
shakes  a  rat.       ■  ^^  ^  ^  '     ;  , 

*  Now,  look  here,  you  know,  Willoughby,'  the  mild- 
faced  geniieman  remarked  in  a  low  but  very  decided 
voice ;  *  I've  got  the  whip-hand  of  you,  and  I'm  com- 
pelled to  use  it.  You  listen  to  what  I  say.  If  you 
spend  one  penny  of  that  hundred  pounds— which  I 
regard  as  to  all  practical  intents  and  purposes  Miss 
Hesslegrave's,  in  any  other  way  except  to  go  to  Venice 
and  write  this  novel,  which  must  be  a  really  first-rate 
one — I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do  :  I'll  publicly  reveal  the 
disgraceful  fact  that  you're  a  British  peer,  and  all  the 
other  equally  disgraceful  facts  of  your  early  life,  your 
origin,  and  ancestry.* 

The  practical  consequences  of  which  awful  threat 
was  that  by  the  next  day  but  one  Kathleen  and  Arnold 
were  on  their  way  South  together,  bound  for  their 
raspective  lodgings  as  of  old  in  Venice. 


310 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


CHAPTEE  XXIX. 


h    I- 


ARNOLD  S   MASTERPIECE.  •      * 

In  spite  of  hard  fare  pnd  occasional  short  commons, 
that  winter  at  Venice  was  a  happy  one  for  Arnold. 
For  Kathleen,  it  was  simply  the  seventh  heavens. 
Every  day  of  it  was  pure  gold.  For  women  are  not  like 
men  in  their  loves.  If  a  man's  engaged,  he  pines  and 
frets  to  get  married ;  he  sees  a  goal  ever  beckoning 
him  forward ;  whereas  if  a  woman's  engaged,  she  is 
amply  satisfied  to  sit  down  in  peace  with  her  lover  by 
her  side,  to  see  him  and  to  talk  with  him.  That 
feminine  joy  Kathleen  drank  to  the  full  through  one 
delicious  winter.  What  matter  to  her  that  perhaps 
at  the  end  of  it  Arnold's  projected  book  might  prove  a 
dismal-  failure  ? — in  which  case,  of  course,  they  would 
be  plunged  once  more  into  almost  as  profound  diffi- 
culties and  doubts  as  ever.  Meanwhile,  she  had 
Arnold.  She  lived  in  the  present,  as  is  the  wont  of 
women ;  and  she  enjoyed  the  present  a  great  deal  too 
much  to  be  seriously  alarmed  for  that  phantom,  the 
future. 

Besides,  she  had  such  absolute  confidence  in 
Arnold!  She  knew  he  could  write  something  ten 
thousand  times  better  than  the  '  Elizabethan  Seadog.' 
That,  after  all,  was  a  mere  tale  of  adventure,  well 
suited  to  the  grown-up  childish  taste  of  the  passing 
moment.  Arnold's  novel,  she  felt  certain,  would  be 
ever  so  much  more  noble  and  elevated  in  kind.  Must 
not  a  man  like  Arnold,  who  had  seen  and  passed 
through  so  many  phases — who  had  known  all  the 
varied  turns  and  twists  of  life,  from  the  highest  to  the 


ARNOLD'S  MASTERPIECE 


3tt 


lowest ;  who  had  lived  and  thought  and  felt  and  acted 
— be  able  to  produce  some  work  of  art  far  finer  and 
truer  and  more  filHng  to  the  brain  than  Master  John 
Golhiigham,  the  ignorant  bully  of  an  obscure  village 
in  Elizabethan  Norfolk?  To  be  sure,  Arnold,  more 
justly  conscious  of  his  own  powers  and  his  own  fail- 
ings, warned  her  not  to  place  her  ardent  hopes  too 
high ;  not  to  credit  him  with  literary  gifts  he  didn't 
possess;  and,  above  all,  not  to  suppose  that  know- 
ledge, or  power,  or  thought,  or  experience,  would  ever 
sell  a  book  as  well  as  novelty,  adventure,  and  mere 
flasby  qualities.  In  spite  of  all  he  '^ould  sny,  Kath- 
leen persisted  in  believing  in  Arnold's  story  till  she 
fairly  frightened  him.  He  couldn't  bear  to  fix  his 
mind  on  tha  rude  awakening  that  no  doubt  awaited 
her. 

For,  after  all,  he  hadn't  the  slightest  reason  to 
Buppoise  he  possessed  literary  ability.  His  momentary 
vogue  was  fll*ogetber  due  to  his  lucky  translation  of  a 
work  of  adventure,  whose  one  real  merit  lay  in  the  go 
and  verve  of  its  Elizabethan  narrator.  He  had  been 
driven  against  his  will  into  the  sea  of  authorship,  for 
navigating  which  he  felt  he  had  no  talent,  by  Rufus 
Mortimer,  in  dire  conspiracy  with  Stanley  and  Lock- 
hart.  Nothing  but  disastrous  failure  could  possibly 
result  from  such  an  undertaking ;  he  dreaded  to  wake 
up  and  find  himself  branded  by  the  entire  critical 
press  of  England  as  a  rank  impostor. 

However,  being  by  nature  a  bom  worker— a  quality 
which  he  had  inherited  from  Mad  Axminster — once 
he  had  undertaken  to  supply  Stanley  and  Lockhart 
with  a  novel  unspecified,  he  worked  at  it  with  a  will, 
determined  to  give  them  in  return  for  their  money  the 
very  best  failure  of  which  his  soul  was  capable.    With 


''S 

'>4 


3IJ 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


'^ 


S? 


this  intent,  he  plied  his  typewriter,  one-handed, 
morning,  noon,  and '  night ;  while  Kathleen  often 
dropped  in  at  odd  moments  to  write  for  him  from 
dictation,  and  to  assist  him  with  her  advice,  her 
suggestions,  and  her  criticism. 

A  good  woman  can  admire  anything  the  men  of 
her  choice  may  happen  to  do.  To  Kathleen,  there- 
fore, that  first  callow  novel  of  Arnold  Willoughby's — 
*  A  Eomance  of  Great  Grimsby  ' — was  from  its  very 
inception  one  of  the  most  beautiful,  most  divinely 
inspired,  most  noble  works  of  art  ever  dreamt  or 
produced  by  the  human  intellect.  She  thought  it 
simply  lovely.  Nothing  had  yet  been  drawn  more 
exquisite  in  its  tender  and  touching  delineation  of 
the  seafarer's  wife  than  Maggie  Holdsworth's  char- 
acter ;  nothing  more  stern  or  sombre  or  powerful  than 
the  figure  of  th  .  gaunt  and  lean-limbed  Skipper.  It 
was  tragedy  to  her — real  high-class  tragedy;  when 
Arnold  hinted  gently  how  the  Hebdomadal  Scarifier 
would  laugh  his  pathos  to  scorn,  and  how  the  Anti- 
quated Groivler  would  find  it  *  dull  and  uninteresting, 
not  to  say  positively  vulgar,'  she  thought  it  impossible 
to  believe  him.  Nobody  could  read  that  grim  story, 
she  felt  sure,  without  being  touched  by  its  earnestness, 
its  reality,  and  its  beauty. 

All  that  winter  through,  Arnold  and  his  occasional 
amanuensis  worked  hard  at  the  novel  that  was  the 
man's  last  bid  for  a  bare  subsistence.  He  felt  it  so 
himself ;  if  that  failed,  he  knew  no  hope  was  left  him ; 
he  must  give  up  all  thoughts  of  Kathleen  or  of  life ; 
he  must  creep  into  his  hole,  like  a  wounded  dog,  to 
die  there  quietly.  Not  that  Arnold  was  at  all  of  a 
despondent  nature ;  on  the  contrary,  few  men  were  so 
light  and  buoyant;  but  the  difficulties  he  had  «n- 


K-'"l     M.t . ...... 


N 


ARNOLD'S  MASTERPIECE 


3ti 


countered  since  he  left  off  being  an  Earl  made  him 
naturally  distrustful  of  what  the  future  might  have 
in  store  for  him.  Nevertheless,  being  one  of  the 
sort  who  never  say  die,  he  went  on  with  his  story 
with  a  valorous  heart ;  for  was  it  not  for  Kathleen  ? 
And  if  he  failed,  he  thought  to  himself  more  than 
once,  with  just  pride,  he  would  have  the  consolation 
of  knowing  he  had  failed  in  spite  of  his  best  endeavour. 
The  fault,  then,  would  lie  not  with  himself,  but  with 
nature.  The  best  of  us  can  never  transcend  his  own 
faculties. 

Bufus  Mortimer  spent  that  winter  partly  in  Paris, 
partly  in  Home.  He  avoided  Venice.  Though  his 
palazzo  on  the  Grand  Canal  lay  empty  all  that  year, 
he  thought  it  best  not  to  disturb  Arnold's  and  Kath- 
leen's felivity  by  interfering  with  their  plans  or 
obtruding  his  presence.  But  as  spring  came  round, 
he  paid  a  hasty  visit  of  a  few  short  days  to  the  city 
that  floats  in  the  glassy  Adriatic.  It  seemed  like  old 
times  both  to  Arnold  and  Kathleen  when  Bufus 
Mortimer's  gondola,  equipped  as  ever  by  the  two 
handsome  Venetians  in  maize-coloured  sashes,  called 
at  the  doors  of  their  lodgings  to  take  them  out  to- 
gether for  their  day's  excursion.  In  the  evening, 
Bufus  Mortimer  dropped  round  to  Kathleen's  rooms. 
Arnold  was  there  by  appointment ;  he  read  aloud  a 
chapter  or  two  for  Mortimer's  critical  opinion.  He 
chose  the  episode  of  the  Skipper's  marriage;  the 
pathetic  passage  where  Balph  Woodward  makes  his 
last  appeal  to  Maggie  Holdsworth ;  and  the  touchiiig^ 
scene  where  Maggie  at  last  goes  forth,  with  her  baby 
in  her  arms,  in  search  of  Enoch. 

'Isn't  it  lovely!'  Kathleen  exclaimed  with  her 
innocent  faith,  as  soon  as  Arnold  had  finished.     'I 


1- ,  ■ 


3'4 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


>-■ 


tell  ArnoU  he  needn't  be  afraid  of  its  reception.    Tliia 
is  ten  times  as  fine  as  the  **  Elizul)etlian  Seadog."  ' 

'  I  don't  quite  feel  certain,'  Mortimer  answered, 
nursing  his  chin,  and  conscious  of  his  responsibility ; 
he  feared  to  raise  their  hopes  by  too  favourable  an 
opinion.  *  I  don't  seem  to  recognise  it's  just  the  sort 
of  thing  the  public  wants.  Doesn't  it  lack  dramatio 
interest  ?  You  and  I  may  admire  certain  parts  very 
much;  and  I  confess  there  were  passages  that  bro'  'it 
tears  into  my  eyes ;  but  the  real  question  is,  wi 
world  at  large  like  it — will  it  suit  the  great  public  at 
Smith's  and  Mudie's  ?  We  must  remember  that  Wil- 
loughby's  a  quite  new  author  ;  the  very  fact  that  the 
world  expects  from  him  something  like  the  "Eliza- 
bethan Seadog  "  may  tell  against  this  simple  domestic 
story.  My  experience  is,  that  when  once  a  man  has 
stood  on  his  head  to  amuse  the  public,  the  public  will 
never  allow  him  to  stand  on  his  feet  again.  And 
that's  what  I  fear  in  this  case ;  the  people  who  read 
Master  John  Collingham  greedily  may  vote  Arnold 
Willoughby  slow  and  uninteresting.' 

*  Oh,  Mr.  Mortimer,  how  can  you  ?'  Kathleen 
exclaimed,  quite  horrified. 

'He's  right,  Kitty,'  Arnold  answered  (it  was  Arnold 
and  Kitty  nowadays  between  them).  'I've  felt  that 
myself  all  along  as  I  was  writing  it.  The  story's  so 
sombre.  It's  better  suited,  I'm  afraid,  to  the  tastes  of 
the  generation  that  read  "Adam  Bede"  than  to  the 
tastes  of  the  generation  that  reads  Eider  Haggard  and 
Conan  Doyle  and  Rudyard  Kipling.  However,  in 
patience  must  we  possess  our  souls  ;  there's  no  telling 
beforehand,  in  art  or  literature,  how  the  British  public 
may  happen  to  look  upon  any  new  departure.*  And 
he  went  to  bed  that  night  in  distinctly  low  spirits. 


ARS'OLD'S  MASTERPIECE 


315 


A  week  later  the  manuscript  was  duly  conveyed  to 
London  by  Arnold  in  person.  Kathleen  followed  a 
few  days  after,  out  of  deference  to  Mrs.  Grundy. 
Arnold  was  too  shy  or  too  proud  to  take  the  manu- 
script himself  round  to  Stanley  and  Lockhart ;  but 
^lortimer  bore  it  thither  for  him  in  fear  and  trembling. 
Scarcely  had  Mr.  Stanley  glanced  at  the  book,  when 
his  countenance  fell.  He  turned  over  a  page  or  two. 
His  mouth  Wiut  down  ominously. 

'  Well,  this  is  not  the  sort  of  thing  I  should  have 
expected  from  Mr.  Willoughby,'  he  said  with  frank- 
ness. *  It's  the  exact  antipodes,  in  style,  in  matter,  in 
treatment,  and  in  purpose,  of  the  "  Elizabethan 
Seadog."  I  doubt  whether  it's  at  all  the  sort  of  book 
to  catch  the  public  nowadays.  Seems  a  decade  or 
two  behind  the  times.  We've  got  past  that  type  of 
novel.  It's  domestic,  purely.  We're  all  on  adventure 
nowadays.'      •  :       >^ 

*  So  I  was  afraid,*  Mortimer  answered;  'but,  at  any 
rate,  I  hope  you'll  do  the  best  you.  can  for  it,  now 
you've  got  it.' 

'  Oh,  certainly,*  Mr.  Stanley  answered,  in  no  very 
reassuring  voice.  *  Of  course,  we'll  do  our  level  best 
for  it.  We've  bought  it  and  paid  for  it— in  part,  at 
least— and  we're  not  likely,  under  those  circumstances, 
not  to  do  our  level  best  for  it.' 

'Willoughby  retains  an  interest  in  it,  you  re- 
member,* Kufus  Mortimer  went  on.  '  You  recollect,  I 
suppose,  that  he  retains  a  fifteen  per  cent,  interest  in 
it?' 

'  Oh,  certainly,*  Mr.  Stanley  answered.  *  I  recollect 
perfectly.  Only,  I'm  afraid,  to  judge  by  the  look  of 
the  manuscript — which  is  dull  at  first  sight,  undeni- 
ably dull — he  hasn't  much  chance  of  getting  more  out 


ml 


-ym 


316 


AT  MARKET  VALVE 


of  it  than  the  hundred  pounds  weVe  paid  him  in 
advance  on  account  of  royalties.* 

This  was  disappointing  news  to  Mortimer;  for  he 
knew  Arnold  had  spent  a  fair  part  of  that  hundred  on 
his  living  expenses  in  Venice ;  and  where  he  was  to 
turn  in  the  future  for  support,  let  alone  for  the  means 
to  marry  Kathleen,  Mortimer  could  form  no  sort  of 
conception.  He  could  only  go  on  hoping  against 
hope  that  the  book  might  '  pan  out '  better  than 
Stanley  and  Lockhart  supposed — that  the  public 
might  see  things  in  a  different  light  from  tho  two 
trade  experts. 

Three  days  later,  ivlr.  Stanley  came  down  to  the 
office,  much  perturbed  in  spirit. 

*  I  say,  Lockhart,'  he  cried,  '  I've  been  reading  over 
this  new  thing  of  Willoughby's — this  "Romance  of 
Great  Grimsby,'  as  he  chooses  to  call  it — what  an 
odious  title ! — and  I  must  say  I'm  afraid  we've  just 
chucked  away  our  money.  He  wrote  the  "  Seadog  " 
by  a  pure  fluke,  that's  where  it  is!  Must  have  been 
mad  or  drunk  or  in  love  when  he  did  it.  I  believe 
he's  really  mad,  and  still  sticks  to  it  he  discovered 
and  transcribed  that  manuscript.  He's  written  this 
thing  now  in  order  to  prove  to  us  how  absolutely 
different  his  own  natural  style  is.  And  he's  proved 
it  with  a  vengeance.  It's  as  dull  as  ditch-water. 
I  don't  believe  we  shall  ever  sell  out  the  first 
edition.' 

'We  can  get  it  all  subscribed  beforehand,  I 
think;'  his  partner  answered,  '  o)a  the  strength  of  the 
"  Seadog."  The  libraries  will  want  a  thousand  copies 
between  them.  And  after  all,  it's  only  the  same  thing 
as  if  he  had  taken  the  hundred  pounds  we  offered  him 
in  the  first  instance.    We  shall  be  no  more  out  of 


\ 


rijtj'jiiiti'- '  W- 1 


PiiippiPf^liil!P 


ARNOLD'S  MASTERPIECE 


317 


v-fl 


\ 


' 


pocket,  if  this  venture  fails,  than  we  should  have  been 
if  he'd  accepted  our  cheque  last  summer.' 

*  Well,  we'd  better  pull  oif  only  as  many  as  we  think 
the  demand  will  run  to,'  Mr.  Stanley  continued  with 
caution.  'It'll  be  asked  for  at  first,  of  course,  on  the 
merits  of  the  "  Seadog  " ;  but  as  soon  as  people  begin 
to  find  out  for  themselves  what  feeble  trasji  it  really 
is,  they  won't  want  any  more  of  it!  Poor  pap,  I 
call  it!'  ~. 

So  the  great  novel,  which  had  cost  Arnold  and 
Kathleen  so  many  pangs  of  production,  came  oat  in 
the  end  in  its  regulation  three  volumes  just  like  any 
other.  There  was  an  initial  demand  for  it,  of  course, 
.at  Mudie's ;  that  Arnold  had  counted  upon ;  anything 
which  bore  the  name  of  the  'editor'  of  *An  Eliza- 
bethan Seadog '  on  the  title-page  could  hardly  have 
fared  otherwise.  B^H  he  waited  in  profound  anxiety 
for  what  the  reviews  would  say  of  it.  This  was  his 
own  first  book,  for  the  *  Seadog '  was  but  8  transcript ; 
and  it  would  make  or  mar  him  as  an  original  author. 

Oddly  enough,  they  had  longer  to  wait  for  reviews 
than  in  the  case  of  Arnold  Willoughby's  first  venture. 
It  was  the  height  of  the  publishing  season ;  editors* 
tables  were  groaning  with  books  of  travel,  and  bio- 
graphies, and  three-volume  novels,  and  epochs  of 
history,  boiled  down  for  the  consumption  of  the  laziest 
intellects.  A  week  or  two  passed,  and  still  no  notice 
of  the  '  Eomance  of  Great  Grimsby.'  At  last,  one 
afternoon,  Arnold  passed  down  the  Strand,  and  stopped 
to  buy  an  influential  evening  paper  on  the  bare  chance 
of  a  criticisn:.  His  heart  gave  a  bound.  Yes,  there 
it  was  on  the  third  page — *  Mr.  Arnold  Willoughby's 
New  Departure.' 

He  took  it  home  with  him,  not  daring  to  sit  and  read 


jia 


mmSM 


s^. 


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it  on  the  Embankment.  The  very  first  sentence  chilled 
him. 

*  When  a  man  begins  by  doing  good  work,  the  public 
has  a  right  to  expect  good  work  in  future  from  him. 
Mr.  Arnold  Willoughby,  or  whatever  gentleman  chooses 
to  veil  his  unknown  personality  under  that  obvious 
pseudonym,  struck  fresh  ground,  and  struck  it  well, 
in  his  stirring  romance  of  "An  Elizabethan  Seadog." 
He  would  have  done  better  to  remember  the  advice 
which  a  Scotchman  in  the  Gallery  once  gave  to  Boswell 
on  a  famous  occasion:  "  Stick  to  the  coo,  mon  !"  Mr. 
Willoughby,  unfortunately,  has  not  stuck  to  his  coo. 
He  has  a  distinct  talent  of  his  own  for  wild  talcs  of 
adventure,  in  which  he  can  well  simulate  a  certain  air 
of  truth,  and  can  reproduce  the  style  of  a  bygone  age 
with  extraordinary  fidelity  and  historical  accuracy. 
But  the  higher  pathos  and  the  higher  constructive 
faculty  are  altogether  beyond  the  range  of  his  not  in- 
considerable powers.  To  put  it  frankly,  his  three- 
volume  novel,  in  spite  of  obvious  straining  after  tiie 
most  exalted  qualities,  almost  induces  one  to  accep'; 
Mr.  Willoughby's  own  improbable  story  of  the  finding 
of  his  manuscript  in  a  Venetian  cook-shop,  and  to 
believe  that  he  was  really  nothing  more,  after  all,  than 
the  translator  and  editor  of  that  excellent  tale  of 
buccaneering  life  in  the  Sixteenth  Century.' 

Arnold's  head  reeled  round.  Still,  he  read  on  and 
on.  It  was  all  in  the  same  strain.  Not  one  word  of 
cold  praise  for  his  poor  little  bantling !  The  reviewer 
demolished  him  as  though  he  were  not  a  vertebrate 
animal.  His  plot  was  crude,  ill-considered,  and  ridi- 
culous. His  episodes  were  sometimes  improbable,  but 
oftener  still  impossible.  His  conversations  were  unreal ; 
.his  personages  shadowy;  his  picture  of  fisher-life  melo- 


ARNOLD'S  MASTERPIECE 


3'9 


dramatic  and  unconvincing.  It  was  plain  he  knew 
nothing  at  first  hand  of  the  sea.  Everything  in  the 
book  from  beginning  to  end  was  bad.  Bad,  bad,  bad — 
as  bad  as  it  could  be.  The  reviewer  could  only  hope 
that  in  his  next  venture  Mr.  Willoughby  M'ould  return 
from  this  puerile  attempt  to  put  himself  outside  his 
own  natural  limitations  to  the  proper  sphere  he  had 
temporarily  deserted. 

Arnold  laid  down  the  paper,  crimson.  Very  new 
authors  are  affected  by  reviews.  He  knew  it,  he  knew 
it !  He  had  been  betrayed  into  attempting  a  task 
beyond  his  powers  by  the  kindly  solicitations  of  that 
good  fellow  Mortimer.  For  Mortimer's  sake,  even 
more  than  his  own,  he  felt  it  acutely.  One  thing  he 
prayed — that  Kathleen  might  not  happen  to  see  that 
review,  and  be  made  utterly  miserable  by  it.  He 
must  try,  if  possible,  to  breek  his  failure  gently  to 
her. 

He  went  out  again,  to  call  on  her,  and  hint  his 
desponctency.  After  that,  he  thought  he  would  go  and 
see  Stanley  and  Lockhart,  to  ask  them  how  much  they 
were  losing  by  his  novel. 

He  walked  along  with  burning  cheeks.  And  as  he 
passed  Bufus  Mortimer's  club,  that  clever  young 
Vernon,  who  writes  such  stinging  reviews  for  the 
evening  papers,  turned,  with  a  smile,  to  the 
American. 

*  There  goes  your  friend  Willoughby,*  he  said,  with 
a  wave  of  his  cigarette.  *  Have  you  seen  what  a 
dressing  I've  given  that  silly  book  of  his  in  this 
evening's  Piccadilly  ?  "  A  Romance  of  Great  Grimsby  " 
indeed!  "A  Drivel  of  Idiocy"  he  ought  to  have 
^^lled  it/ 


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CHAPTEE  XXX. 


WHAT  ALWAY3   HAPPENS. 


When  Arnold  reached  Kathleen's  rooms,  he  found 
Mrs.  Irving  quietly  seated  there  before  him,  while 
Kathleen  herself  was  immensely  excited  about  some- 
thing unknown  that  had  happened  in  the  interval. 

'Have. you  seen  the  evening  papers?*  she  cried, 
almost  as  soon  as  he  entered,  rushing  up  and  seizing 
his  hand  with  sympathetic  fervour.  *  That  dear  Mrs. 
Irving,  she's  just  brought  them  round  to  me  !' 

*"What  papers?'  Arnold  answered,  trembling  in- 
wardly for  her  disappointment.  Such  friendliness  was 
criiel.     *  Not  to-night's  Piccadilly  V 

*  Oh  dear  no,'  Kathleen  answered,  unable  any  longer 
to  restrain  her  delight.  'Who  cares  for  the  Pic- 
cadilly'^  The  Hyde  Park  Gazette  and  to-morrow's 
Athenaum.  Do  look  at  them  at  once!  There  are 
such  lovely  reviews  in  them  !' 

'  Keviews  ?'  Arnold  exclaimed,  drawing  a  deep  long 
breath.  *  Oh,  Kitty,  of  our  book  ?*  For  it  had  been 
*  ours '  with  both  of  them  in  every-day  talk  from  its 
very  beginning. 

*  Yes,  ours,'  Kathleen  answered,  everjoyed.  *  And, 
oh,  Arnold,  I'm  so  proud.  To  think  it's  your  very,  very 
own  this  time !  I  shall  always  be  so  glad  to  remember 
I  helped  you  write  it !' 

*  Let  me  see  them,'  Arnold  cried,  half  mazed ;  and 
Kathleen,  with  a  glowing  face,  handed  him  over  the 
papers. 

The  poor  fellow  began,  still  tremulous,  with  the 
Hyde  Park  Gazette*    How  his  heart  beat  fast,  and 


WHAT  ALWAYS  HAPPENS 


321 


m 


y 


then  stood  still  within  him !  The  heading  alone  was 
enough  :  *  Mr.  Willoughby's  New  Triumph.' 

Once  more  the  ground  reeled  uhder  him,  though  in 
the  opposite  sense  from  the  way  it  had  reeled  an  hour 
or  so  before.  He  clutched  a  chair  for  support  and 
sank  into  it,  all  dazzled.  This  was  too,  too  splendid  ! 
'  Mr.  Willoughby,'  the  notice  began,  with  journalistic 
stiffness,  '  has  scored  a  second  success,  far  greater  in 
its  way  than  the  success  he  scored  over  "An  Eliza- 
bethan Seadog."  His  new  novel,  though  utterly  unlike 
its  popular  predecessor,  is  as  admirable  in  execution  ; 
but  it  is  infinitely  superior  in  design  and  purpose. 
The  change  is  fundamental.  Mr.  Willoughby's  new 
book  strikes  a  far  higher  note,  and  strikes  it  firmly, 
clearly,  definitely,  with  a  hand  of  perfect  mastery. 
His  maiden  effort  had  the  merit  of  an  exciting  romance 
of  action  and  adventure  ;  it  belonged  to  the  type  now 
so  unduly  popular  .  ith  the  vast  body  of  readers ;  and 
our  author  showed  us  there  that  he  could  hold  his 
own  against  any  man  living  in  the  department  of 
lurid  historical  fiction.  He  has  done  wisely  now  in 
revealing  those  profounder  qualities  of  thought  and  of 
artistic  workmanship  which  can  only  be  adequately 
displayed  in  a  more  serious  piece  of  psychological 
analysis.  The  result  is  most  satisfactory.  We  must 
congratulate  Mr.  Willoughby  on  having  escaped  from 
thraldom  to  the  foolish  fancy  of  a  passing  day,  on 
having  abjured  the  fearful  joys  oic  gore  that  flows 
like  water,  and  on  having  ventured  to  use  his  own 
great  powers  to  the  best  and  highest  purpose  in  the 
production  of  a  sterling  and  pathetic  romance,  far 
worthier  of  his  gifts  than  his  in  many  ways  admirable 
"  Elizabethan  Seadog."  ' 

Arnpld  read  on  and  on  ip  &,  fervour  gf  veactiou, 


4'- 


•4 


I 


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This  was  glorious !  magnificent !  Line  by  line  the 
review  revi^'ed  in  him  all  his  belief  in  himself,  all  his 
belief  in  the  reality  of  his  own  creations.  And  it 
flattered  him  profoundly.  For  it  saw  in  his  work 
those  very  qualities  he  himself  ].^1  striven  hardest 
with  all  his  might  to  put  into  it.  That  is  the  only 
kind  of  praise  a  sensible  man  ever  cares  for  ;  he  wants 
to  be  given  credit  for  the  merits  he  possesses,  not  for 
the  merits  he  lacks  :  he  wants  to  be  approved  of  for 
producing  the  effects  he  actually  aimed  at.  Arnold's 
face  glowed  with  pleasure  by  the  time  he  had  reached 
the  end;  and  as  soon  as  he  had  finished  that  first 
flattering  notice,  Kathleen,  smiling  still  more  deeply, 
handed  him  the  Athencsum. 

Arnold  turned  to  the  critical  organ  again  with  a 
vague  sense  of  terror.  The  first  few  sentences  com- 
pletely reassured  him.  The  leading  literary  journal 
was  more  judicial,  vO  be  sure,  and  more  sparing  of  its 
approbation,  than  the  penny  paper,  as  becomes  a 
gazette  which  retails  itself  to  this  day  for  an  aristo- 
cratic threepence  ;  but  the  review,  as  he  read  on,  gave 
Arnold  no  less  pleasure  and  gratification  than  the 
other  one.  For  he  perceived  in  it  before  long  a  certain  ' 
tone  and  style  which  form  as  it  were  the  hall-mark  of 
a  very  distinguished  critic,  to  have  gained  whose  suf- 
frages was  indeed  no  small  joy  to  him.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  Arnold  felt  he  was  being  appreciated 
for  himself  alone  -for  the  work  he  had  really  and 
actually  performed,  not  for  his  artificial  position  or  for 
extraneous  merit  falsely  attributed  to  him. 

As  for  Kathleen,  glowing  pink  with  delight,  she 
stood  glancing  over  his  shoulder  as  he  read,  and 
watching  with- a  thrill  the  evident  pleasure  in  his  face 
at  each  fresh  word  of  approval.    Her  cup  was  very 


— HH 


WHA T  AL \VA YS  HA PPENS 


323 


full.  At  last  he  was  appreciated !  As  soci  as  he  had 
finished,  she  turned,  with  a  face  all  crimson,  to  her 
silver-haired  friend.  ^    '■ 

*  I  must,  Mrs.  Irving !'  she  cried,  with  a  womanly 
gesture — *  I  really  must !'  And  in  a  transport  of  joy 
ard  triumph,  she  flung  her  arms  round  him  and 
kissed  him  fervently. 

*I  think,'  Mrs.  Irving  said,  rising  with  a  quiet  smile, 
and  setting  the  bonnet  straight  over  those  silver  locks, 
'  I'd  better  be  going  to  look  after  some  errands. — No, 
dear ;  I  can't  possibly  stop  any  longer ;  and  I  dare  say 
you  and  Mr.  Willoughby  will  have  lots  of  things  now 
to  talk  o\\.r  quietly  with  one  another.' 

And  so  they  did.  Arnold  felt,  of  course,  that  if  one 
bad  review  didn't  make  a  chilling  frost,  neither  did 
two  good  ones  make  an  established  reputation.  Still, 
it  did  seem  to  him  now  as  though  the  sky  were 
clear  ng  a  bit ;  as  though  it  might  be  possible  for  him 
at  lai  t  to  marry  Kathleen  some  time  in  the  measuralile 
futur<}.  They  must  wait  and  see,  to  be  sure,  how  the 
book  went  ofif ;  but  if  it  really  succeeded,  as  a  commer- 
cial venture,  Arnold  thought  his  path  in  life  would 
henceforth  lie  tolerably  smooth  before  him. 

So  he  waited  a  week  or  two,  not  daring  meanwhile 
to  go  near  Stanley  and  Lockhart's,  for  fear  of  a  dis- 
appointment. During  the  interval,  however,  Kathleen 
couldn't  help  seeing  for  herself  at  the  bookstalls  and 
libraries  abundant  evidence  that  the  '  Romance  of 
Great  Grimsby '  was  making  its  way  rapidly  in  public 
favour.  Wherever  she  went;  people  spoke  to  her  of 
*  Your  friend  Mr.  Willoughby's  book — oh,  charming, 
quite  charming !  What  a  delightful  man  he  must  be 
to  know — so  clever ;  and  so  versatile !  I  wish  you 
could  bring  him  here.'    And  when  Kathleen  answered 


■^?f"i 


"^aiite9(lw.4<^;y.-^.^***   • 


V?S'*^^ 


AT  MARKET  VALUE 


briefly,  with  a  deep  red  spot  on  her  burning  cheek, 
that  he  didn't  care  to  go  out,  people  murmured  to 
themselves,  half  aside :  '  Ah,  a  little  affectation ! 
He'll  get  over  that,  of  course,  as  soon  as  he  ceases  to 
be  the  lion  of  the  moment.  But  it's  always  so  with 
lions.  They're  invariably  affected.'  For  it  was 
Arnold's  fate  in  life  to  be  persistently  credited  with 
the  virtues  and  vices  alike  that  were  most  alien  to  his 
shy  and  retiring  disposition. 

At  the  end  of  three  weeks  more,  with  a  very 
nervous  step,  he  went  round  by  himself  to  Stanley 
and  Lockhart's.  The  moment  he  got  inside  the 
publisher's  door,  however,  he  was  no  longer  in  doubt 
whether  or  not  his  book  was  really  selling.  The 
office-boy  recognised  him  at  once,  and  descended 
deferentially  from  his  high  bare  stool,  flinging  the 
wooden  barrier  open  wide  with  a  respectful  sweep  for 
the  man  who  had  written  the  book  of  the  season. 
Arnold  went  up  in  a  maze  to  the  senior  partner's 
room.  Mr.  Stanley,  humming  and  bowing,  received 
the  new  lion  with  much  rubbing  of  hands  and  a  very 
glowing  countenance. 

*  Selling,  my  dear  sir  ?'  he  said  in  answer  to  Arnold's 
modest  inquiry.  *Why,  it's  selling  like  wildfire. 
Biggest  success  of  its  kind  since  "  Bobert  Elsmere." 
I  confess  I  certainly  had  my  doubts  at  first ;  I  had  my 
doubts:  I  won't  deny  it.  I  thought,  having  once 
fixed  your  public  with  the  first  book  you — edited ' — 
Mr.  Stanley,  catching  his  breath,  just  saved  himself 
with  an  effort  from  the  peccant  verb — *  you  would  do 
better  to  stick,  in  future,  to  the  same  kind  of  thing 
you'd  made  your  original  hit  with.  It  was  an  ezperi- 
ment — an  experiment.  But  you  judged  your  own  real 
talent  more  justly  than  I  did.    There  can  be  no  sort 


nUA T  AL IV A YS  II A PPENS 


325 


6i  doubt  now  that  your  book  Las  hit  the  mark.    It's 
being  read  all  round.    We're  going  to  press  to-day 
with  a  third  edition.' 
Arnold's  lace  grew  pale. 

*  A  third  edition !'  he  murmured.  This  sudden 
success  at  last  was  almost  too  much  for  him.  *  Well, 
I'm  glad  of  it,'  he  answered  again,  after  a  moment's 
pause — *  very  glad  indeed ;  for  I've  found  Hfe  hard  at' 
times,  and  once  or  twice  lately,  since  my  hand  got  * 
crushed,  to  tell  you  the  plain  truth,  I've  almost 
despaired  of  it.* 

'  Well,  you  won't  find  it  hard  in  future,  the 
publisher  said  kindly,  with  a  benignant  smile.  *  No 
despairing  henceforward.  Whatever  you  write  after 
this  will  command  its  own  rjiarket.  We're  pleased  to 
think,  Mr.  Willoughby,  we  \/ere  tlie  first  to  encourage 
you.  It's  a  feather  in  our  cap,  as  I  said  to  Lockhart. 
Would  you  like  a  small  cheque  on  account,  say  for  a 
couple  of  hundreds  ?' 

*  A  couple  of  hundred  pounds  ?'  Arnold  cried,  taken 
ab'^ck.  To  have  earned  such  a  sum  for  himself  as 
two  hundred  pounds  seemed  to  him  well-nigh  in- 
credr'jle. 

*  Why,  yes,*  the  man  of  business  answered,  with  a 
good-humoured  laugh.  *  A  great  deal  more  than  that 
must  be  due  to  you  already.  Let  me  see:  three 
thousand  at  eighteen-and-six— h'm,  h'm :  exactly  so. 
Judging  by  what  we  made  on  the  last  book  we 
published  (the  sale  of  which,  after  the  same  length  of 
time  had  elapsed,  was  barely  two-thirds  of  yours),  I 
should  fancy,  before  you've  done,  your  book  ought  to 
bring  you  in  somewhere  about  two  thousand  five 
hundred.' 

Arnold  gasped   for  breath.     Two  thousand   five  ' 


:k  >' 


W^, 


\iiMJB^^^Ml^^MS^iilS^^i£ad^ir^&i3k/SK 


;* w *-  '■  "  'M'^^^'  ^^' '■*  ■' '■'-p'^^-  ■ 


326 


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hundred  pounds !  And  all  of  his  own  making !  Willi 
that  one  maimed  hand  too !  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  he  was  positively  proud  of  himself. 

'There's  only  one  thing,  Kitty,*  he  said  an  hour  or 
two  later,  as  he  sat  holding  her  hand  in  her  own 
pretty  room  in  Kensinfi;ton— '  only  one  thing  that 
mars  my  complete  happiness;  and  that  is  the  fact 
that  I  don't  feel  quite  sure  whether  such  work  as 
mine  is  of  any  use  to  humanity.  I  don't  feel  quite 
sure  whether  a  man  can  hold  himself  justified  to  the 
rest  of  his  kind  in  living  on  the  produce  of  labour  like 
that,  as  he  might  if  he  were  a  sailor,  now,  or  a  shoe- 
maker, or  a  miner !' 

'  I  do,'  Kathleen  answered,  with  a  woman's  simpler 
faith.  *  I  feel  quite  certain  of  it.  What  would  life  be 
worUi,  after  all,  without  these  higher  tastes  and  these 
higher  products — art,  literature,  poetry?  It  is  they, 
and  they  alone,  that  give  it  its  value.  I  thought  to 
myself,  as  you  were  writing  it  and  dictating  it  to  me 
at  Venice:  "How  wrong  it  would  be  for  this  man, 
who  can  think  things  like  those,  and  put  his  thoughts 
80  beautifully,  to  throw  away  his  gifts  by  doing 
common  sailor's  work,  that  any  ordinary  workman 
with  half  his  brains  and  a  quarter  of  his  sensitiveness 
oould  do  a  hundred  times  better,  most  probably,  than 
he  could !' 

*Not  better,'  Arnold  exclaimed,  correcting  her 
hastily,  and  put  on  his  mettle  at  once  by  this  stray 
suggestion  of  inferiority  in  his  chosen  craft.  '  I'm  a 
tip-top  mafiner !  I  don't  know  whether  I  can  paint ; 
and  I  don't  know  whether  I  can  write  ai  novel  worth 
the  paper  it's  printed  on  :  but  I  do  know  I  was  always 
^  a  first-rate  hand  at  reefing  a  sail  in  dirty  weather ; 
'and  the  bo'sun  used  to  say,  "  Send  Willoughby  aloft* 


%^.!^''.m 


WHAT  ALWAYS  HAPPENS 


327 


S,,:,. 


cap'n ;  he's  the  surest  0!  the  lot  of  'em."  Till  my 
hand  got  crushed,  I  could  haul  a  sheet  with  the  best 
man  in  England.  My  one  consolation  now  is,  that  I 
lost  it  in  the  performance  of  my  duty  to  the  world  ; 
and  that  so,  having  served  my  time,  as  it  were,  till 
accident  maimed  me,  I'm  at  liberty  to  live  on,  like  a 
sort  of  literary  Chelsea  pensioner,  on  whatever  light 
work  I  can  best  turn  the  relics  of  my  shattered 
hand  to.* 

*  And  I'm  sure  it's  good  work,  too,'  Kathleen  per- 
sisted, unabashed,  with  a  woman's  persistency.  *  Work 
that  does  good  in  the  world  quite  as  much  as  seal-oil, 
or  shoes,  or  coal,  not  only  by  giving  pleasure  to  who- 
ever reads  it,  but  also  by  making  people  understand 
one  another's  difficulties  and  troubles  better — break- 
ing down  barriers  of  class  or  rank,  and  so  uncon- 
sciously leading  us  all  to  be  more  sympathetic  and 
human  to  one  another.' 

'  Perhaps  so,'  Arnold  answered.  *  I  hope  it  is  so, 
Kitty !' 

There  was  a  long  pause  next,  during  which  Kathleen 
stared  hard  at  the  empty  fireplace.  Then  Arnold 
spoke  again. 

'After  what  Stanley  and  Lockhart  told  me,'  he  said, 
soothing  her  hand  with  his  own — 'can  you  see  any 
just  cause  or  impediment,  darling,  why  we  two 
shouldn't  make  it  Wednesday  fortnight  ?' 

Kathleen  leaned  forward  to  him  with  happy  tears 
in  her  brimming  eyes. 

'  None  at  all,  dear  Arnold,'  she  answered,  too  happy 
for  words,  almost.  '  The  sooner  now,  I  think,  the 
better.' 

They  sat  there  long,  hand  in  hand,  saying  all  they 
said  mutely — which  is,  after  all,  the  best  way  to  say 


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many  thingn  that  lie  deepest  in  the  heart  of  humanity. 
Then  Kathleen  spoke  again. 

*  Only  for  one  thing,  dearest  Arnold,  do  I  wish  you 
could  have  married  me  under  your  own  real  name. — 
No  ;  don't  start  and  misunderstand  me.  I  don't  want 
to  be  a  Countess ;  I  have  no  mean  ambitions :  I'd 
rather  be  Arnold  Willoughby's  wife,  who  wrote  that 
beautiful  book,  than  ten  thousand  times  over  an 
English  Countess.  But  I  do  wish  the  world  could  only 
have  known  how  brave  and  how  strong  you  are,  and 
how  much  you  have  gone  through  for  the  sake  of 
principle.  I  want  it  to  know  how  you  might  at  any 
time  have  put  out  your  hand  and  reclaimed  your  true 
rank,  and  how,  for  conscience'  sake,  you  refused  to 
do  it.  Many  a  time  a^  Venice,  this  last  long  winter, 
when  I  saw  you  so  poor  and  ill  and  troubled,  I  thought 
to  myself :  "  Oh,  I  wish  he  could  only  break  through 
his  resolve,  and  go  back  with  a  rush  to  his  own  great 
world  again."  And  then  1  thought,  once  more:  "Oh 
no ;  for  if  he  could  do  that,  he  wouldn't  be  the  Arnold 
I  love,  and  admire,  and  believe  in  so  firmly:  he  is 
himself  just  in  virtue  of  that;  and  it's  for  being 
himself  that  I  love  him  so  utterly."  And — it's  irra- 
tional, of  course;  illogical;  absurd;  self-contradictory; 
but  I  somehow  do  wish  you  could  proclaim  yourself 
to  the  world,  so  that  the  world  might  admire  you  as 
it  ought  and  would— for  never  so  proclaiming  your- 
self !' 

Arnold  stooped  down  and  kissed  her. 

*  My  darling,'  he  answered,  smoothing  her  cheek, 
*  if  I  have  gained  your  love,  that's  more  than  enough 
for  me.  What  we  are,  not  what  we  are  taken  for,  is 
the  thing  that  really  matters.  Most  men,  I  suppose, 
are  never  truly  known — not  to  the  very  heart  and  cor© 


:,  :'- *3 


■■  ^\ 

iMtikJLfi'.-'^K.'i.'. 

WHA T  ALWA YS  HA PPENS 


329 


of  them — except  by  the  one  woman  on  earth  that 
loves  them.  I  often  wonder  whether  I  did  right  in 
the  first  place ;  whether  I  ought  ever  to  have  shifted 
all  that  responsibility  and  all  that  wealth  to  dispose 
of,  on  to  the  shoulders  of  my  cousin  Algernon,  who 
is  certainly  not  the  wisest  or  best  man  to  make  use  of 
them.  But  would  I  have  used  them  better?  And 
once  having  done  it,  my  way  then  was  clear.  There 
was  no  going  back  again.  I  shall  be  happy  now  in  the 
feeling  that,  left  entirely  to  myself,  and  by  my  own 
work  alone,  I  have  so  far  justified  my  existence  to 
mankind  that  my  countrymen  are  willing  to  keep  me 
alive  in  comfort,  for  the  sake  of  the  things  I  can  do 
and  make  for  them.  As  the  world  goes,  that's  the  one 
test  we  can  have  of  our  usefulness.  And,  Kitty,  if  I 
hadn't  done  as  I  have  done,  I  should  never  have  met 
you;  and  then  I  should  never  have  known  the  one 
woman  on  earth  who  is  willing  to  take  me,  not  for 
the  guinea  stamp,  but  for  the  metal  beneath  it — who 
knows  and  believes  that  the  man's  the  gold  for  a' 
that  I' 


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